


Lost Souls

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Creepy, Halloween Challenge, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: He'd known. Of course he'd known. He'd just been hoping it was all in his head





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the 2018 Halloween Challenge on rockfic. (It won, for what it's worth.)

_"He didn't even tell me, and I'm his partner."_

He'd said it in his usual amiable way, passing it off as a joke. And truly, Jon had been too hungover to fully register what Richie was doing: Tossing off a thinly veiled, very public complaint about an intensely private matter. 

It hadn't been till later, when the interview aired, that Jon had the clarity to understand. And to be pissed.

_"Why do you have to say shit like that?"_

_"I say a lotta shit. Be more specific."_

_"You know what I mean … Partner."_

He realized Richie had been stung by it all -- being left out, and feeling left behind. He never _said_ he was hurt, of course. He never blatantly showed it. They kept that part of their relationship under wraps. Mostly. Except when Richie couldn't hold his tongue, and feelings surfaced in unexpected and embarrassing ways. 

_"Rich, I'm sorry. OK?"_

_"For what?"_

_"Knock it off. You know."_

_Richie just shrugged. "No big deal. You even said it right to the cameras. You're married, not dead." He flashed a smile. "As long as it's discreet, right?"_

They'd argued some more after that -- just a bullshit back-and-forth about who should've said what first. Nothing major, easily swept aside. They'd even sucked each other off later, after the show.

No big deal. 

But Richie hadn't used the word _partner_ since. Lately, he hadn't used any of their less-obvious code words, or broken out those come-hither looks on stage, or told any of the stupid jokes he'd been recycling since 1984. Lately, he'd been different.

No big deal -- that's what Jon told himself for a couple weeks. He was married now, and there was this never-ending tour. And this never-ending demand for his energy. If Richie wanted to be a pissy child, that was his problem. Jon didn't have the time or patience for it.

Then came the day when Alec, of all people, cornered him.

_"Man, what the fuck is wrong with Rich?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"What do I mean? You know what I mean."_

He'd known. Of course he'd known. He'd just been hoping it was all in his head -- that he was imagining Richie was disintegrating from a lack of his attention. Just imagining it because of guilt, or ego, or both. 

But if other people were seeing it, then it had to be real. And if it was real, he had to face it.

*****

"When did it start? I mean, when did you notice it?"

Jon shrugged.

Dave rolled his eyes. "Dude. You notice _everything._ If he switched to Pert Plus, you'd know it."

"Richie would never use that shit," Jon said, not kidding.

Dave sighed dramatically then looked him straight in the eye. "Was it after you disappeared to Las Vegas, by any chance?"

Jon felt his body tense involuntarily. "No … Not exactly. Why are you even asking that?"

Dave shrugged, with a small unreadable smile. "Then when?"

Jon looked down at his coffee cup.

_A couple weeks ago, when he was blowing me._

If Dave wanted the truth, that was it. But he was pretty sure Dave wasn't ready for that particular truth. And Jon wasn't ready to let anyone know their private business.

"I think," he hesitated. "I think after the show in Detroit."

Dave narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"

Jon scratched at an eyebrow. "Um. He just …"

_He was blowing me, but it didn't feel like him. I know his mouth. I know his hands._

"He just seemed off. Not on his usual after-show high, y'know?"

"But why? Did you ask him?"

"Well." Jon balked again, embarrassed to admit he hadn't. He'd gotten off, so …

"It was the day after he went to see that guy."

"Guy?"

"The" -- Jon waved a hand, trying to find the right phrase -- "shaman. From fucking Peru."

Dave snorted. "What, now?"

Jon smiled ruefully. "I don't think he was really from Peru. I think he was just from Detroit."

"Uh-huh." Dave seemed to be absorbing the information. "What the fuck is a shaman, anyway? Aren't they, like, witch doctors?"

Jon cringed a little at the words. "I'm not sure. But I think they're supposed to talk to spirits and shit. And, like, banish the bad spirits that are making you sick, or crazy, or whatever."

Dave sat back in his chair and barked out a laugh. "Why would _Rich_ go to one? I mean, he's never struck me as possessed by evil spirits."

Jon shook his head. No, that didn't sound like Richie.

"Well, I'm not sure I've got it right," he admitted. "I wasn't really listening. You know when Richie starts babbling, sometimes …"

Dave studied him for a moment, like he was waiting for more, then gave a nod of acknowledgment.

"Yeah, I know."

Jon blew out a breath. "He's still not over his stupid crystals-and-incense phase," he said, hearing a bitter edge to his voice. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure he mostly went for the drugs."

Dave smiled, like he was relieved. "Ah, OK. That makes sense at least. What kinda drugs?"

Jon dipped his chin, again feeling self-conscious about his inattention -- even though there was no reason for guilt. He wasn't Richie's keeper, and he wasn't responsible for … whatever was happening.

"I don't remember," he hedged. "He said it was some kind of tea -- but not, y'know, Lipton. I think it's like dropping acid, but more vivid or … medicinal, Richie said."

It all seemed so ridiculous, Jon had tuned most of it out.

Dave furrowed his brow. "So what happened? He had a bad trip?"

Jon eyed his coffee. "I dunno. He didn't say anything like that, but … maybe."

"And that's when you think it started?" Dave prodded. 

"Yeah." 

That was when Richie became someone else. Mechanical onstage, moody off-stage, withdrawn -- suddenly embodying all the things he wasn't. It seemed improbable to trace it to a cup of drugged tea from some guy in Detroit. But it also felt good to blame a stranger.

Dave shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. Even if he had a bad trip, that lasts, like, a day at most. And he's not running around sayin' giant rabbits are chasing him and his face is melting."

"I know," Jon said lamely.

He'd heard stories about people becoming psychotic after a crazy trip -- but he was pretty sure those people were nuts to begin with. And Richie wasn't that messed up, anyway. As far as Jon knew, psychotic people didn't live in reality. Richie wasn't like that. He just wasn't himself. 

Dave sighed. "Well, it's getting worse. Everyone is seeing it now. Maybe the fans, too."

Jon felt his gut clench. He should've known better than to wait it out. He'd just assumed …

"I'll talk to him," he said firmly. "Again," he added, at Dave's look.

 

_"I didn't do anything wrong."_

_"Right. You never do."_

_"Oh, fuck off, man. That shit's getting old."_

_"No kidding. This whole fucking thing is getting old."_

_"Hey -- You're free to leave any time you want."_

 

Jon clutched his coffee cup. "I'll talk to him," he repeated. "I'll take care of it."


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was determined to stay awake, to keep watch. He knew he should.

It was the movement, a violent jerk of the bed, that woke him. 

"What?" he asked automatically, blindly reaching toward the figure next to him in the dark. "Rich?"

The bed jerked again, and this time he heard Richie gasp -- saw him sit bolt upright and fling the blanket off. "What the fuck is that?"

Jon's body was too heavy to respond right away. Too much liquor, too much pot. Too much.

"What?" he asked again.

Richie swatted at his own legs. "The fuck? Don't you feel it?"

"Rich --"

The bed shifted as Richie shot to his feet -- so fast he staggered back a few steps and slumped against the wall. 

"You don't _feel_ it?"

"What is it?" Jon demanded, growing agitated.

"I dunno," Richie replied, voice cracking. He slid down the wall a little, and his face became visible in the moonlight. 

"Hang on," Jon said, reaching for the bedside lamp. As the dim light hit, Richie threw a forearm over his eyes.

"Ugh." He sank all the way down to land on his ass. "What do you see?"

Jon glanced at the abandoned space next to him, seeing only wrinkled sheets. 

"Nothing."

"You didn't look."

Jon grabbed the edge of the blanket -- hesitating for a moment as a bizarre chill took hold of his limbs.

_There's nothing there, for fuck's sake._

He tossed the covers off.

"There's nothing."

He heard a shaky exhale. "You're not _looking._ "

"Jesus Christ, of course I am," Jon insisted, scooting over to get a better view of Richie where he sat, still huddled against the wall.

Another shiver rolled through him. He'd never seen Richie like that -- curled in on himself, diminished.

"What did you take?" he asked without thinking.

Richie looked up and scowled at him. "Nothing. I mean, just the weed. Drank whatever you drank." He started rubbing his bare shins frantically. "They were crawling up my legs."

Jon scanned the sheets again. They were in a hotel, after all. Five stars, but still a hotel. "What? Like, bugs?"

"No. No, it was … heavier than that."

"There's nothing here," Jon repeated.

"Fuck you!" Richie growled, and Jon startled at the transformation in his voice, the spark of anger in his eyes. "Do you think I'm fucking crazy?"

Jon needed a beat to find his voice. "Of course not."

Richie blinked a few times, and his body seemed to deflate. "Good."

Jon cleared his throat, searching for words. Words that would comfort Richie, or at least not tip him farther over the edge.

"Maybe it's, like, a nerve thing? So it just felt like something crawling on you?"

Richie shook his head. "Something was on me, Jonny. It's -- I've felt it before. Just never like that."

_Oh._

So this wasn't the first time Richie had imagined things attacking him in his sleep. Jon had to wonder how _he'd_ missed it. Then again, they hadn't spent the whole night together in a while.

"OK," he replied, just to say something.

He felt stupid and helpless, sitting there on a king-sized bed while Richie was on the floor, falling apart in front of him. He was used to having answers, or at least inventing them.

"What do you wanna do?" he asked pathetically.

Richie went back to rubbing his legs. "I dunno. But I'm not sleeping here."

"OK," Jon said, because simple agreement seemed to be working. "You wanna go back to your room?"

Richie bit his lip and said nothing. So Jon swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'll go with you."

Richie wrapped his arms around himself, visibly shuddering even though the room wasn't cold. "You do think I'm crazy."

"No," Jon said, with a surety he didn't feel. "I just wanna go with you."

Richie eyed him for a long moment, looking uncertain. "You -- You're not one of them, are you?"

Jon felt his stomach drop. All he could do was study Richie's face, waiting for him to crack a smile and mock his gullibility. But that didn't happen.

"One of who?" he finally asked.

Richie just kept watching him, unblinking. So Jon shook his head slowly, schooling his expression. "No. It's just me, Rich."

Richie regarded him warily before his features seemed to morph again, softening into some kind of relief. Or resignation.

"OK. Let's go. It's freezing in here."

*****

"I think you should go to a doctor."

It had been two days since he'd promised Dave he'd take care of things. Two days wasted. Now, sitting on Richie's bed -- on guard for things that creep and crawl -- he knew he couldn't wait anymore.

Richie narrowed his eyes, drawing his knees in closer. "Why?"

Jon sighed. "You said you've felt it before."

"So?"

"So … That means it wasn't just that bed. Or this hotel. There's something wrong."

Richie smiled faintly and looked toward a spot on the blanket. "You think it's me. Of course you do."

Jon pressed his lips together and tried to rein in his temper. "I just mean … It's like I said. You might have some kinda nerve damage or something. I don't know. That's why you need a doctor."

Richie kept staring at the same point.

"Maybe at one of the parties we've been to lately," Jon ventured. "You could've taken something --"

"You think it's my fault."

" _No,_ " Jon denied, even though he knew Richie's recklessness had to be partly to blame. "I just think you might've taken something you didn't know about."

No answer.

"What about that guy in Detroit?"

Richie glanced over. "What about him?"

"You weren't sure what he gave you."

Richie shifted away from him, tension clear his posture. "I know what it was. I told you. Not LSD, but …" He tapped his fingertips against his forehead, like he was trying to coax the memory out. "It had three letters and it's like LSD."

He tapped his head a little harder and mumbled something indecipherable.

Jon angled to face him. "No. You said he gave you some tea, and the acid thing was in it. It could've had all kinds of other shit. Stuff he didn't bother to mention."

Richie kept muttering under his breath, trying to conjure the stupid three letters, and Jon felt an anger bubbling up from his gut. How could Richie be so stupid?

"It could've had arsenic in it, for all you know," he spat out. "He could've fucking poisoned you."

Richie shook his head. "He wasn't like that."

"How do you know?" Jon challenged. "You have no idea."

Richie whipped to face him, and Jon saw something -- a shadow that passed over his face, quick as lightning -- and he knew he wasn't looking at Richie.

"You have no fucking clue what you're talking about, you _piece of shit._ "

Jon could only gape, dumbfounded. They'd had plenty of fights, especially lately. But Richie had never looked at him like that -- with bare hatred in his eyes.

_It's not Richie._

Jon tried to control the tremor in his hand as he moved the blanket, covertly inching away from the person next to him.

"OK. I guess you're right."

Richie kept glaring, jaw clenching and unclenching. 

Jon took a deep breath. "That's why I think you should go to a doctor. Get a professional opinion instead of mine."

Richie's gaze didn't falter. He didn't even blink. And there was no mistaking the pitch blackness of his eyes.

Jon slid back a little more, hoping it didn't read. "The -- the feelings you're having. You want them to go away, right?"

He waited until Richie nodded.

"OK. So if they can find the cause, they can probably make them go away."

Richie nodded again.

Jon sighed. "I just think … something's gotten into you, y'know?"

Richie finally blinked, a smile slowly spreading across his face. And then he was full-out giggling -- but in a foreign, hallow way Jon had never heard.

"You're worried something got into me?" Richie said mockingly. "Besides you?"

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but froze when Richie leaned over, lips drawing close to his ear. He barely stopped himself from recoiling as he felt the curve of a smile.

"That would _really_ piss you off, wouldn't it, Jonny?"

He laughed softly and Jon flinched at the puff of air on his neck. He relaxed only marginally as Richie sat back against the headboard.

"All right," he chirped, agreeable as fuck. "I'll see a doctor. Just to make you happy."

Jon swallowed hard. "It's not to make me happy, Rich," he said hoarsely. "I just want you to feel better."

Richie flashed a smile. "That's nice. Thanks, Jonny."

Jon nodded, because that was all he could do. He watched as Richie settled into the pillows and closed his eyes without another word. It wasn't until minutes had passed, and it seemed like Richie might actually be asleep, that Jon cautiously sat back.

He was determined to stay awake, to keep watch. He knew he should. But at some point, fatigue took over and he must've passed out. The next time he woke, it was to stillness -- with Richie curled up next to him, sleeping like a baby. As if nothing in the world was wrong.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wanted to touch him but was too scared. He told himself it was because he didn't want to make things worse. It was partly true, at least.

"Sorry I didn't call yesterday. Things were crazy."

There was only the muted sound of a TV on the other end of the line. Jon could picture Dot chewing her lip, deciding whether she even wanted to know. 

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Jon said quickly, feeling a little guilty. "It's just … Rich is sick. Or something. We're tryin' to figure it out."

"What do you mean? What's wrong with him?"

"Well. He's just having these weird problems. Like, nerve problems in his legs. And strange dreams. He's just … not himself."

There was silence, and he knew the wheels were turning in Dot's head. "Do you think it's something contagious?"

"Nah," Jon brushed the idea off. "Rich and I are always together. If I was gonna catch something, I would've."

"I suppose."

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face and flopped onto his bed. "Anyway, we're in Portland now, and he's goin' to a doctor tomorrow. Doc is taking him, to make sure he actually goes."

"Hmm. That's good."

"So, I'm sorry I didn't call."

Dot sighed. "It's OK. I hope it's nothing serious -- whatever's wrong with Rich."

"It'll be all right," Jon assured, trying to sound unconcerned. "Doc thinks he's just wiped out from all the time on the road and everything."

"Uh-huh. You know he's not really a doctor, right?"

Jon chuckled. "Then why's he always tellin' me to turn my head and cough?"

"Do you trust him?"

"Who?" Jon asked, caught off-guard by the sudden redirect.

"Doc."

"Well -- Yeah. Why?"

"I was just thinking … If something's really wrong with Richie, do you think Doc will tell him to take time off? Or just, like, feed him coke or speed or whatever? Do you think he'll tell you what the doctor really says?"

"Of course," Jon said reflexively, then paused. "He wouldn't do anything to hurt us."

"I guess," Dot agreed half-heartedly. "It's just … You've been out there so long now. You're all so drained, y'know?"

_Yeah. We are._

"We're fine," Jon said firmly. "We're great. This is just … I won't let anything happen to Rich. To anyone."

"You can't control everything, Jon."

"I won't let anything happen."

Dot laughed softly. "OK. I know … You love him."

Jon didn't answer. Sometimes he wondered if she knew, or at least suspected. He wondered if she knew that, in his whole life, he'd fallen in love with only two people. And he needed both of them.

"I love you."

"I know," Dot said, her voice sounding far away. "I love you, too."

*****

"I'm feeling better."

"Yeah," Jon replied as he kicked his shoes off. "I can tell."

The trip to the doctor hadn't told them much. They'd taken some blood, but the results would be a while. God knew what city they'd be in by then. But Richie did have a shiny new prescription for sedatives.

Jon had made sure he didn't mix the pills with booze. No partying for the past two nights -- just straight to the hotel after the gig. And Richie had slept soundly. Jon knew for certain, because he'd been with him every moment.

_"Doctor thinks it's probably exhaustion," Doc had said. "Guess you kids should get to bed at a decent hour once in a while."_

Exhaustion. It sounded reasonable, and rational, and fixable. So Jon chose to believe it was true.

Richie stepped closer and reached for the flaps of Jon's open shirt, giving him a little tug. "I mean, I feel a _lot_ better."

Jon shivered slightly. He knew that tone. This was Richie -- no one else.

He smiled. "What are you up for? So to speak."

Richie returned the smile, and it was real. "Anything."

Jon skimmed his hand along Richie's arm, then interlaced their fingers. Richie glanced down, obviously distracted by the oddly innocent gesture. When he looked up there was a sparkle in his eyes. The one Jon knew -- had known for years.

So when Richie pushed him back onto the bed, he didn't resist. A part of him knew it was a bad idea. It was too soon, and something was bound to knock them out of this almost-forgotten comfort zone. 

But he found it easy -- frighteningly easy -- to tell himself that was just in his head. Because this was the only reality he wanted right now … the solid, willing body enveloping him, the obscenely skilled mouth greedily taking him in. When he heard himself moaning, he knew it wasn't just from the physical sensation, but from the realization of how much he needed this.

Jon curled his fingers in those still-damp locks and gently pulled, just to feel the vibration of Richie's voice around him as he groaned. It was real.

He almost whimpered in anticipation as two fingertips slipped behind his balls, tracing a deliberate path back and forth, pausing and pressing against that place every few times.

" _Ngh._ Right there," he encouraged, though it wasn't needed. 

It had been a while since they'd done this, and Jon felt an ache emerging from deep inside. Even if his mind denied it at times, his body would always remind him how much he craved this kind of connection.

Still, as Richie's fingers moved farther back, teasing a little more, and then a little more, Jon felt an involuntary tension seize his limbs. Dot's voice echoed in his head -- but not out of guilt this time. It was something else.

It was that question. Did Richie _have_ something he could catch? 

He tried to dismiss it, just like he'd done on the phone … But this was real.

Jon rubbed his fingertips against Richie's scalp and steadied his breath. "Rich? I'm, uh, not into that right now. Sorry."

Richie's hand stilled, and then he was slowly pulling off. And every cell in Jon's body seemed to be screaming at him. 

Richie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Oh. OK."

There was an undercurrent of disappointment in his voice. But a moment later, he was slinking up the bed, landing a few kisses along Jon's belly and chest before threading his hands into his hair.

"What do you want, baby?" Richie murmured, nuzzling his ear. "You wanna fuck me?"

Jon's hips jerked automatically, and he couldn't stifle a groan. _God, yes._

They hadn't done _that_ in a long time, either -- longer than he preferred. That same base need flared again, even stronger. So Jon told himself this way would be better -- safer for him.

_Yeah. Keep saying that._

"Um. Are you sure? You feel --" He gasped as Richie slowly circled his hips.

"How do you think I feel?" the bastard asked with a sly grin.

Jon laughed breathlessly. "Horny," he diagnosed, gliding his hands over Richie's ass.

"Glad I'm being clear."

If Jon had any more coherent arguments, they evaporated as Richie laved that well-memorized spot on his neck. He arched into the touch, kneading the smooth skin under his hands. It was like so many times before, he realized, when their arguments and resentments and jealousies just dropped away. Somehow they could simply melt into each other and forget whatever barriers had been thrown up, willfully or against their will.

By the time Jon was buried inside that all-consuming heat, he could barely remember why he'd thought this was a bad idea.

How could it be? Richie's legs were coiled around him, heels digging into him like he couldn't draw him in deep enough. Hands roaming as far as they could reach, like he needed to memorize every inch of skin all at once.

And after days of keeping a wary distance between them, Jon felt an almost desperate drive to plunge back in. How could it be wrong to give in?

"This OK?" he whispered as he quickened his pace.

Richie's hands slid around and under his ass, finger pads massaging him, and it seemed like answer enough. The way his whole being seemed to be holding onto Jon for dear life -- it seemed right. Perfect.

"God, Rich …"

And then sounds were tumbling out, as his self-control gradually crumbled and his body fell into a primal rhythm. If there was an inner signal telling him something was off, he chose to ignore it. Because it just felt so fucking good. To be with someone who knew him through and through, who wasn't just a poor stand-in for Dot. 

It felt so good to hear that resonant voice chant his name, build toward a reckless volume. He couldn't help getting lost, like he was submerged underwater.

He wasn't sure how long it took for him to realize Richie was screaming. 

Jon's eyes flew open. " _Shit._ Did I hurt you? --"

He hissed as Richie's fingernails sliced down his arm and the pained-sounding cries turned into panic. 

"Get it off me! Get it off!"

"Christ," Jon grunted, trying to pull out even as Richie grasped him tighter. "Rich, let go."

"Get it _off._ "

"You hafta let go."

Richie's arms felt freakishly strong around him, almost crushing. And his impulse to help started giving way to self-preservation. "Rich."

Jon's breath caught in his chest as a biting cold shot through him -- not from the air around him, but from the inside out.

"Fuck," he gasped, teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Let _go._ "

Richie finally loosened his hold, and Jon took a gulping breath. But he lost the lifeline as Richie's hand closed around his throat. Jon looked down in shock and saw those black eyes boring into him -- that unguarded fury he'd only glimpsed before. 

He grabbed Richie's wrist with both hands, and even as his brain fired off alarms that he was _dying -- fucking do something,_ he registered the rock-like strength in the muscles under his hands. 

_Fuck._

Jon tried to use his legs for leverage, but Richie was still latched onto him, holding him in place.

"Rich," he managed to choke out.

His vision blurred as his eyes watered, but he could feel a shift in Richie's body. Saw the change roll over his face -- the moment of confusion, and then clarity -- and then mercifully, there was air.

Jon barely knew what he was doing, but he was pulling out, scurrying down the bed. Almost instantly, Richie started shouting again, thrashing side-to-side -- struggling to fight off something that wasn't there.

Jon paused at the foot of the bed, crouched like he was ready to spring. Maybe he was going to help, or maybe just try to get away. He honestly didn't know. It didn't matter, because suddenly the wind was knocked out of him and he found himself sprawled out on the floor, half-way across the room.

For a moment, Jon stared at the ceiling, hearing the chaos like it was coming through a tunnel. His eyes zeroed in on the cracks in the plaster above him. 

"What the fuck is happening?"

He thought he was saying the words out loud, but couldn't hear his own voice. He felt, instead, the imprint of that pressure on his throat, and he brought his hands up to defend himself -- even though there was nothing there.

_Breathe._

Jon took a long inhale, hearing it rattle in his lungs. There was a pause, almost like relief, where the constriction on his throat released. And then a sharp cry pierced his ears.

"Shit."

He winced and rolled onto his shins, catching sight of Richie now hunched on the bed, clawing at his own back. 

Jon scrambled to his feet, then froze as he tried to understand what he was seeing. One moment, Richie seemed to be sitting up, but in the next he was flat on his belly -- like something had shoved him down -- his forearms pinned down by his head. Yelling bloody murder into the pillow.

"Rich --"

Richie's body jerked, and some kind of cut -- red and jagged -- appeared on his shoulder. Jon stared as the same wound cropped up again, and then again, across Richie's upper back. And the wailing grew pitiable.

"God, _stop_ … Jonny."

The sound wrenched Jon from his stupor, and he lurched forward, only to hit … something. Something that filled him with that same shock of cold, to the center of his bones, and held him motionless.

He could only watch as those cuts erupted in a stream, down the length of Richie's back, and the pleas turned to sobs. They flooded Jon's ears -- seemed to be _in_ him -- and he shut his eyes because it was too much. He had enough awareness, at least, to be ashamed.

"Rich. I can't --"

That was as far as he got, because his mind was shutting down. He didn't know how many seconds were lost, but the next time he opened his eyes he was on the floor again, knocked onto his ass and huffing once more from lack of air.

Jon blinked rapidly, trying to clear a sightline, to understand why he couldn't breathe. Or do fucking anything.

He could tell, though, that the din had abruptly stopped. When his vision settled, he saw that Richie was still lying face-down but not struggling anymore. His cries had quieted to a low, continuous moan.

That's when he realized the beat he'd been hearing, like an undertone in the back of his head, was actually someone pounding on the door.

"Rich! What's goin' on? Let me in!"

It was Dave's voice. Instinctively, Jon crawled toward the door, then pushed to his feet. But just as he was reaching for the lock, he stopped -- struck by the reality of the scene around him. He couldn't let anyone in. He couldn't let anyone _see._

He still had the fucking condom on, for Christ's sake. He almost laughed, on the verge of hysteria.

"Rich! C'mon, man."

Jon shook his head, as if that would clear it. "Dave. I'm here."

"Jon? What the fuck is going on?"

"He's … He's OK now," Jon said, scanning the floor for his jeans.

He realized his words were ridiculous, and his priorities in that moment were fucked up. But if someone broke the door down, at least one of them should have clothes on.

"Lemme in, man," Dave insisted, clearly agitated.

"No," Jon said sharply. He looked toward the bed, cringing as he took in the crimson marring Richie's back.

"Davey, do me a favor. Get a first aid kit."

There was a beat of silence. "A first _aid_ kit? The fuck? I'm getting security."

" _No,_ " Jon almost shouted, growing desperate. "Just call the front desk and get 'em to bring it to your room. Do it, Dave."

He heard a frustrated sigh, and then, "OK."

Jon exhaled heavily and turned around, letting his leaden body fall back against the door. He could see the pulse of Richie's quick, shallow breathing, the way his legs were twitching in the aftershocks. He was seeing the pieces, but somehow his brain refused to put them all together. Or couldn't. 

_You fucking coward. Do something._

"Rich?" he croaked, moving forward tentatively. "Can you --"

He didn't finish the question because he wasn't sure what he was asking. With each step, the air seemed to grow colder. Jon stopped to grab his pants from the floor, then kept babbling as he put them on.

"Rich? Hey -- it's OK. Can you answer me?"

He stepped closer, almost to the edge of the bed. He could see now that Richie's whole body was shivering violently, his face hidden in his hands so that only broken little sounds seeped through. Jon wanted to touch him but was too scared. He told himself it was because he didn't want to make things worse. It was partly true, at least.

"Hey," he murmured again, leaning over the bed -- getting a full view of the damage for the first time. 

The wounds on Richie's back were red and raised, and spread out in tidy groups of clear punctures. Jon blinked a few times as he absorbed the pattern he was seeing.

"Jesus Christ."

The thing that was all in Richie's imagination had just bitten the shit out of him.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon woke with a start, blinking against the dark. He couldn't immediately get his bearings, or understand why he was in bed.

_"Holy shit, Jon. What did you do?"_

_"Me? You think I did this?"_

_"Well, who the fuck did?" Dave stepped closer to the bed, looking as freaked as Jon felt. "Rich? You OK?"_

_Richie burrowed further into the pillows._

_"He's won't talk," Jon said numbly. "You honest to fucking God think I did that?"_

_Dave turned around. "No. But he was screaming his head off, and you were the only one here. Explain it to me, Jonny."_

_"I didn't do it, Dave."_

_"Who. Did?"_

_"I … I don't know."_

 

Dave had eventually relented, but his disbelief was obvious. Jon couldn't blame him. He wouldn't have bought it, either.

_I don't know._ It was a shit answer. But it was also the truth. There'd just been no way to tell the whole truth without landing Richie and himself in a fucking psych ward. 

Jon rolled onto his side, curling in as close to Richie as he dared. He'd used a wet towel to clean the wounds. Then he and Dave laid a patchwork of gauze and tape over them. That was the best they could do.

And the sedatives. Thank God for those. Richie had passed out half-way through their amateur first-aid attempt, without ever uttering a word.

_Good thing._ There was no telling what might've come out of his mouth.

Jon gingerly laid a hand on Richie's shoulder, where the skin was unharmed.

"You know I didn't do it," he murmured. "I would never …"

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't crazy. He knew what he'd seen. And apparently Richie wasn't crazy, either. There _was_ something trying to pull him apart, get into him, do … God only knew.

Jon slid his fingertips down Richie's arm, then up again. He remembered what he'd told Dot -- that he wouldn't let anything happen. She'd told him that was impossible.

Turned out she was right.

*****

"Sorry I didn't call. It was one of those nights."

"It's OK. How's Rich?"

Jon gazed at the ceiling above his bed, noticing the web of cracks there. It reminded him of Richie's room. He closed his eyes.

"Not so good."

"What do you mean?"

Jon's lips started to tremble, and he thought he should probably be embarrassed. But he couldn't help it. He wanted to tell her -- she was the one person who'd believe him. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn't, and he couldn't handle that.

"Jon?"

"Sorry. I'm just tired. He's … Well, that doctor gave him sedatives, so he's groggy and … weird."

"He's always weird." He knew Dot was just trying to make him smile.

"Yeah," he agreed, forcing a chuckle.

"He probably needs the rest, though."

Jon rubbed his eyes. "Yep. We're canceling the show tonight, actually."

He'd told Doc and the guys Richie had a fever, was puking everywhere. He was pretty sure no one believed that, either.

Dot didn't answer right away. She knew, of course, they'd never call off a concert unless it was bad.

"Well," she began, "seems like it's for the best. You can get some rest, too."

Jon almost laughed. The idea seemed outside the realm of reality -- or whatever passed for reality these days.

"Right. I will."

"Good."

Jon kept staring at the ceiling. The more he looked, the more cracks he saw. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too … He's gonna be OK, you know."

Jon closed his eyes again. "I know."

*****

"He told me it was you."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I just went to check on him. I asked him who did it, and he said it was you."

Dave looked at him expectantly, but Jon could only sit there as the words sunk in. _Shouldn't have left him alone._ He'd just needed a break -- to talk to his wife, breathe fresh air, to be anywhere but that fucking room.

Jon glanced around at the other tables on the patio, then leaned forward.

"I didn't do a fucking thing."

_I didn't even help him. I just stood there and watched._

Dave narrowed his eyes. "Why would he lie?"

"He wouldn't," Jon said through clenched teeth. "He's probably confused. You know how messed up he's been."

"Yeah," Dave said slowly. "But now I'm wondering …"

"What?" Jon snapped.

"Did you take it, too? Whatever you think fucked with Rich's head?"

Jon blinked. "Huh? _No._ I told you. He went on his own to see that … psycho, is probably what he was." 

Dave looked down and tapped his fingers on the table. "Yeah, but … Did he bring anything back?"

"It's not like getting a milkshake at McDonald's."

Dave pulled a face. "Listen. I'm just trying to understand why you and Rich are both acting …" He sighed. "I am _begging_ you to give me a reason I shouldn't tell Doc you attacked our guitarist last night."

Jon felt his heart skip a beat. Dave had to be bluffing.

"Davey. How long have you known me? You think I did that? To Rich, for Christ's sake?"

Dave darted his eyes away. "No, I don't … I mean, I don't know what to think. First Rich starts acting like … I don't even know. Now you're telling me shit that makes no sense."

He glanced at Jon. "I feel like I'm in a 1950s movie about pod people that's really a metaphor for Cold War existential anxiety."

Jon smiled a little, despite himself. 

Dave eyed him cautiously before leaning over the table. "Jonny, I have to say this … That room last night? It _reeked_ of sex."

Jon's stomach twisted into a knot, and he prayed it wasn't showing in his face. "It's Richie's hotel room. What else would it smell like?"

Dave shook his head. "You know the groupies haven't been allowed near him for days. Vaginas across America are suffering."

Jon sat back and worked his jaw, trying to telegraph his displeasure.

Dave either didn't read it or didn't care. "Oh yeah -- He was bare-ass naked, too."

Jon fidgeted in his chair. "That's how he sleeps. Fucker can't stand clothes." He frowned. "What are you trying to say, man?"

No answer. So Jon turned on him.

"OK, you got me," he sneered. "The truth is, me and Rich are into kinky sex games. I bite him till he bleeds -- He fucking loves it. Does it all make sense now?"

Dave held up his hands, eyes wide with alarm. "Dude. Are you trying to scar me for life? I'm just sayin' …"

"Yeah," Jon muttered, rising to his feet. "I heard what you said." He moved to stand over Dave, lowering his voice. "Just keep your mouth shut, OK? I'll take care of this myself."

Dave grasped his forearm. "Jonny, c'mon."

There was such a mixture of confusion and worry in his face, Jon almost felt bad for him. He would've, if he had any more room left.

"I'm just thinking," Dave said quietly. "If you guys took something last night, maybe you don't remember what happened. Maybe things got … I don't think you _meant_ to do anything --"

Jon yanked his arm away. "You have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

He instantly recognized the accusation -- an echo of something Richie had said to him -- but didn't feel like pondering it.

"I hafta get back."

He walked away, ignoring Dave calling after him. He didn't have any room for it.

*****

"I'm not your personal nurse, so don't get used to this."

Richie made a _hmm_ sound as Jon dabbed the antibiotic ointment on a cluster of bite marks. That's what he was calling them in his head, anyway.

"Seriously," he went on. "I've been on the cover of _Rolling Stone._ This is beneath me."

Richie adjusted the pillow under his head. "And I like my nurses with less body hair," he mumbled wearily. "Life is cruel."

Jon smirked and reached for a gauze pad. "Stop squirming so much and this'll go a lot faster."

Richie sighed. "It hurts."

Jon paused, holding the dressing in mid-air. "You want more painkillers?"

"Yeah."

"OK. Just let me finish this."

As Jon started taping he felt Richie flinch, but he kept working. It had to be done. And things needed to be said. He figured it would be easier to do it now, when he didn't have to look him in the eyes.

"So, uh … Dave said he was talkin' to you."

Richie frowned slightly. "I don't remember."

Jon studied his profile, trying to get a read of his face, half-buried in the pillow.

"You don't?" He grabbed the ointment and moved to the next cluster. "Well, he said some things that didn't sound right."

"Like what?" Richie asked hesitantly. 

Jon kept his eyes on his task. "He, uh -- He said you told him I did this to you."

Richie craned his neck, looking up as much as he could. "What? No."

Jon laid his clean fingertips on Richie's temple and gently pushed his head down. "Relax. Let me finish this."

"I didn't say that," Richie protested, even as he gave in to the order. 

"OK," Jon said, mostly to keep the calm. "Guess he misunderstood or something."

Richie closed his eyes. "I didn't," he insisted.

"OK," Jon repeated, softer this time. "I believe you."

He watched Richie's face, waiting till the crease between his eyebrows eased.

"Rich? Can I ask you something else?"

Richie's eyelids fluttered open, and he peered at Jon before giving a slight nod. 

"Do you remember what happened? Last night, I mean."

Richie grimaced. "Um. Not everything. Just … I felt that _thing_ again, y'know?"

"Yeah." Jon swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "That all?"

Richie shifted underneath his hands. "I -- I felt it on me and … inside me."

Jon tried to keep his face impassive as his gut roiled. 

"I was trying to get it off," Richie said. "But then I looked and it was you."

Jon bit his lip. "We were having sex. You remember?"

"It was you," Richie continued, like he hadn't heard the question. "But then it wasn't. It was … I dunno. Something was holding me down, but felt like -- like it was clawing at me from inside, too."

Jon brought his hand to side of Richie's head, rubbing his scalp. "OK," he soothed. "I get it. It was really confusing. That's why you told Dave it was me."

"I didn't. I didn't even talk to him --"

"OK … OK."

They both fell silent, and Jon kept massaging in slow circles until Richie closed his eyes. He opened his mouth, knowing he'd intended to say more, but couldn't form the words. Somehow the thread had disappeared.

_Huh._

So he kept up his motions, pressing into Richie's scalp a little more firmly with each pass -- feeling himself pulled in by the warmth there. Gradually, the heat started to burn into his fingerprints.

_What am I doing?_

It was a hazy question -- not one he cared to answer. He was too consumed by the heat … by the sight of his hand disappearing into those tangled brown locks. A little farther … then a little farther … till he'd gathered a fistful of hair --

Richie grabbed his wrist. " _Ow_ \-- Jon."

Jon froze, staring at Richie's hand but not quite feeling it. He shook his head to clear the fog.

"M'sorry, baby."

He watched Richie's hand drop away, and then his own slip back to his lap. He closed his eyes, felt his heartbeat in his throat.

_What am I doing? What am I doing?_

Right. The bandaging. 

"Jonny?"

He opened his eyes. "Sorry. I -- I didn't get any sleep. My head is just …"

Richie stayed perfectly still. "I know."

Jon reached for the gauze and realized his hand was visibly trembling. He squeezed it into a fist, willing it to stop.

"Rich? Don't think about it anymore, OK? Just rest."

Richie sighed and his body seemed to sink farther into the bed. 

"Can I finish this?" Jon asked, unclenching his hand.

"Mmm. Yeah."

Jon managed to get through, though he had to fight to stay focused, to keep his hand steady.

_Just need some sleep. Gotta crash._

"Be right back. Gotta grab the painkillers." As Jon pushed to his feet, Richie took hold of his wrist again.

"Hey."

Jon looked down, but couldn't meet Richie's eyes.

"What are we gonna do, Jonny?"

Jon still couldn't look at him as he answered. "I don't know. But I'll figure it out."

*****

_"You can't be serious. He can't fucking play."_

_Jon set his jaw. "He said he can. And we have no choice. We can't cancel again. Doc said --"_

_"Doc thinks he has the fucking flu --"_

_"Richie said he can do it."_

_Dave gaped at him. "For fuck's sake, I dunno who's crazier anymore -- him or you."_

_Jon leveled him with a glare. "I'm fine."_

 

And it was the truth -- or not exactly a lie. He'd given Richie two pills the night before instead of one, and then popped one himself. They'd both slept soundly and woken up at noon, like any normal day. Their version of normal.

Richie had been the one to say he could play -- that he could stand the guitar strap if there was enough cushioning over the wounds. And Jon made sure of that.

 

_"I know it's gonna kill you to wear a proper shirt," he teased as he applied the dressings. "But I think you can keep it unbuttoned so the girls can still see your nipples."_

_Richie laughed, in his easy, goofy way._

 

But now, back at the hotel again, Jon could see their tenuous hold on normal was unraveling.

" _God._ I can't fucking stand this anymore," Richie griped, pacing between the door and the bed.

Jon sighed. "Yeah. You keep sayin'."

Richie had soldiered through the show. He'd stayed cemented at his mic, but his playing had been tight.

Ever since they'd hit the dressing rooms, though, he'd grown more and more restless. He'd wanted to party, but everyone sensed that could be disastrous -- even Al and Teek, though they were mostly in the dark.

"I can't _live_ in hotel rooms." Richie stopped in his tracks and fisted his hair like he was ready to pull it out.

Jon sat down heavily in a chair by the balcony. "I know it sucks."

Richie looked over and scowled. "You're the one keeping me here." He started pacing again. "All I've seen for days is your fucking face."

Jon bobbed his head. "Sorry, man. I'd prefer prettier company, too."

He tried to keep his voice light as he watched Richie's movements -- how his hands were twitching, how his steps were short and quick, instead of long and languid. It wasn't right.

Logically, Jon knew where this was heading. He knew he should probably get the fuck out of there. But there was no way he was leaving Richie alone. 

"Rich. You hafta rest."

Richie barked a laugh. "That's what you call it? _Rest._ "

Jon took a deep breath. "What do you mean?"

Richie flapped a hand toward the nightstand. "You keep feeding me those pills. You -- you keep me holed up in hotel rooms. You …"

"What?"

Richie crossed his arms and held Jon's gaze. "I know it was you."

Jon blinked but didn't look away. "What are you talkin' about, man?"

"You know. You know what you did to me."

Jon shook his head. "No. It wasn't me, Rich."

Richie laughed again, without a hint of humor. "That's what you keep tellin' me."

"I didn't do that to you. I wouldn't."

"Sure you would. You do whatever you want." Richie wagged an index finger at him. "But you are getting less _discreet,_ Jonny."

Jon gritted his teeth as an unexpected anger bubbled up. _That's not Richie talking. It's not him._

Richie took a couple steps toward him, his eyes glistening in the low light. "You think you can fool me? You think I didn't _see_ you?"

Jon grasped the chair arm, needing some outlet for the anger. "I was there, so you saw me. But I didn't do it."

Richie let his head loll, eyes to the ceiling, then looked back to Jon with a disbelieving smile. "Who the fuck did?"

"You know it wasn't me," Jon replied, enunciating the words. "I mean … Richie knows that."

For a few long seconds, Richie regarded him with exaggerated curiosity. "Jonny? Who you talkin' to?"

Jon shrugged a shoulder. "Not sure."

Richie took another step forward. "Wow. Maybe you should go to a doctor." The lamplight cast a shadow across his face as he smiled. "I think something's gotten into you."

 

Jon woke with a start, blinking against the dark. He couldn't immediately get his bearings, or understand why he was in bed. But it was all familiar, too -- the scratchy sheets, the vaguely musty scent.

_Oh. Right._ Hotel room. Richie's room. He'd been asleep. Dreaming.

Jon rubbed his eyes as the night started coming back in flashes. Blurry visions of the massive crowd, the ride back from the arena, trudging to Richie's room with him. How heavy his own body had felt. The lines of pain on Richie' face. How they'd fallen into bed half-dressed -- but not before Jon fished out the sedatives.

He'd dropped two pills into Richie's palm, just to make sure he slept …

Jon turned his head sharply.

"Rich?"

It was stupid, saying Richie's name when the other side of the bed was obviously empty. But some piece of him hoped his eyes were wrong. Or that he was still dreaming.

"Fuck."

Jon sat up. "Rich?" he called toward the bathroom. Nothing.

_Fuck._

He pushed to his feet, swaying a little as he looked for his shoes. That's when he noticed a shadow through the sheer curtain covering the balcony door. He had to squint before the form made sense … It looked like someone sitting on the ground.

"Rich?"

Jon walked over, trying to ignore the prickling in his skin.

"Rich?" He pulled the curtain back.

Sure enough, there was Richie, sitting with his back against the glass sliding door. Jon saw a wispy trail of smoke rising, and then the glow of a cigarette as Richie moved his hand. He sighed in relief.

"Rich?" Jon tapped lightly on the glass.

No response. So he tapped again. Richie simply brought the cigarette to his lips.

"Jesus Christ," Jon muttered. "Like I need this shit." He reached to slide the door open, but it wouldn't move.

He stepped closer to peer at the door handle in the moonlight, and saw that it was locked.

"The fuck?"

How had Richie locked the door behind him? He couldn't have …

Jon looked at the figure on the ground, a sense of dread fanning out from the pit of his belly. The fine tendrils of smoke were rising and curling. But other than the movement of his hand, Richie was stock-still.

Jon kept watching him as he flipped the lock then pulled on the handle -- and found it refused to budge. He looked down, made sure the lock was released, then tried again. Nothing.

" _Fuck._ " 

Jon rapped on the glass, louder this time. "Rich? Open the door."

Richie brought his forearm to his knee and tapped the cigarette with his finger. Jon couldn't see the ash fall away, but for some reason he pictured it disappearing into the dark … And a wave of panic rose inside of him.

He slapped his palm against the glass. "Rich! Fucking answer me!"

This time, Richie angled his head a bit then slowly shifted, making his way to his feet. He turned to face Jon, the wind whipping his hair over his eyes, making his Hendrix t-shirt ripple. Jon pointed at the door handle. 

"I can't get it."

Richie stood motionless, and Jon could tell he wasn't seeing him, or maybe anything at all.

"Rich. Open the door."

Richie just turned and started to move away, and Jon felt his knees buckle.

"No. No, no, no." He pounded on the glass. "Rich! Stop!"

Because he knew. Even before Richie walked to the wall and looked over the edge.

Jon grabbed the door handle with both hands and tugged furiously. "Jesus fucking Christ. Rich!"

He knew, even before Richie stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete. Before he climbed onto the wall and dangled his legs over the edge. 

"No!" Jon slammed his body weight into the door, even though it was stupid, useless. Only painful. " _Fuck!_ Rich, don't!"

_I'm dreaming. Still dreaming._

But he knew. He couldn't dream the terror that was coursing through his body. This was real.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in his mind, he thought he should be relieved. Grateful. Thanking God. But he couldn't feel those things.

"Sorry I'm calling so late. Or early, I guess …"

"Hmm. You know I have a life, too, right?"

Jon was lying in bed, staring down the front of his body. His feet were ice-cold, and he wondered why he wasn't wearing socks.

_Oh. Left them in Richie's room._

"Jon?" 

"Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry."

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, I can tell something happened." She sighed. "Is it Rich again?"

_Yeah._

"Jon?"

_The door wouldn't open. I tried._

"Jon, what's wrong?"

_I ran into the hall, yelling like a lunatic._

"OK, you're freaking me out. What _happened?_ "

Jon shook his head. "I don't know."

 

_Dave stepped out of his room, half-dressed and clearly pissed. "Jonny, what the hell?"_

_He grabbed Dave's arm, started pulling him down the hall. "He's gonna jump. I can't get the fucking door."_

_Dave dug his feet into the carpet, resisting. "What?"_

_"The balcony," Jon snapped. "He's gonna jump."_

_Dave's face seemed to fall, and then he was pushing past him, bounding the few yards to the room. Disappearing. Jon's brain told him to follow -- screamed at him -- but his body suddenly felt too heavy. Weighed down._

Move. Fucking move. 

_He put a hand on the wall and closed his eyes. With his sight gone, he realized he couldn't hear any sounds. No shouts, no pounding, nothing._

_"Dave!"_

_Nothing._

_"Fuck."_

_A wave of dizziness hit as he opened his eyes, but he forced his legs to carry him to the doorway. As he peered into the room, the first thing he noticed was the movement of the curtain, billowing in the breeze from the open balcony door._

_Jon stared at it dumbly._

_He still couldn't hear a thing, but he could feel. The chill from outside hitting him with a force that seemed like far too much. His gut clenching painfully. His bare feet on the carpet, dragging him across the room._

Please, please, please.

_Finally he heard Dave's voice, murmuring words he couldn't make out. And then Richie's._

_"Rich?" Jon whispered hoarsely, stumbling out into the air._

_He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't the scene in front of him … The two of them just standing by the wall, speaking in hushed tones … Richie with his arms crossed and visibly shivering. Looking distraught, but otherwise fine. It was so mundane, Jon almost laughed._

_He took a clumsy step and they both turned. For an instant, Richie locked eyes with him. Then he looked away, toward the black sky and the city lights._

_"Jon. What the fuck is going on, man?" Dave demanded._

_Jon didn't answer. Somewhere in his mind, he thought he should be relieved. Grateful. Thanking God. But he couldn't feel those things. He couldn't even feel the cold or the fear anymore._

_All at once, there was only a white-hot fury. Richie had turned away from him, and he couldn't stand it._

_How dare that bitch just look away after what he did?_

_"You fucking asshole," he heard himself growl, almost like the words were coming from outside of him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"_

_Richie flinched but refused to answer or meet his gaze. And Jon couldn't stand it. He lurched forward and shoved Richie hard enough to send him staggering._

_"What did you think you were doing? You fucking bitch."_

_Richie started toward him, a shocked kind of anger etched across his face, his hand already balled into a fist. Jon was ready for it -- He didn't give a shit. But Dave jumped in -- arms wrapping around Jon and pulling him back._

_"Hey! Calm the fuck down."_

_But Jon only wanted one thing. He glared at Richie where he stood, frozen, a few feet away. "Answer me."_

_Richie merely took a step forward, narrowing his eyes, like he was trying to peer into Jon's. And even in the untrustworthy moonlight, Jon could see a short story play out across his features. How the hard line of his jaw softened and his lips parted, how his eyes widened by fractions … how he was slowly backing away._

_Jon watched him sit down heavily on the ground, by the wall, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't do anything."_

_The denial only sparked another flare of rage, and Jon found himself pushing Dave away, diving down. Prying Richie's hands away from his face, squeezing his wrists --_

_"You were on that fucking wall, ready to jump. You scared the fucking life out of me."_

_Their faces were so close now, Jon could see the stark fear in Richie's eyes. He could feel the racing pulse under his fingers. And he was glad. Richie should know what real terror was like._

_"What the fuck's going on?"_

_It was Tico's voice, and a moment later there were hands on him again. Too many. He tried to anchor himself with his legs, to keep them from pulling him away from Richie. He wasn't done._

_"Jon! Knock it off."_

_He kept struggling as Tico and Dave hauled him to his feet._

_"Christ," Tico grunted. "When did you get so strong, for fuck's sake?"_

_"Get off me!" Jon snarled. "He's the one."_

_Richie just shook his head. "I dunno what he's talking about. I just … I came out for a smoke."_

_Jon tried to yank his arms free. He had no idea what he planned to do, but he was seething, and it needed to surface before he exploded._

_"I was yelling your fucking name, over and over. Slamming the fucking glass. You didn't hear me?"_

_Richie brought his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes._

_"Answer me!"_

_"Jon!" Dave got in his face, grabbing his shoulders. "That door was open."_

_"Bullshit. There's no way that's true."_

_Dave looked him dead in the eyes. "He was just standing there smoking, like he said. I don't know what you're goin' on about, man."_

_Jon set his jaw. "He -- He did something. That door wouldn't move." He craned his neck, trying to catch Richie's eye. "Why are you lying?"_

_"Jonny," Dave said wearily. "For Christ's sake."_

_Jon growled in frustration, wrenching himself away. "You two must've heard me. I was yelling my lungs out."_

_Dave and Tico glanced at each other._

_"I have company," Dave said. "Music's pretty loud. I didn't hear anything till you were in the hall."_

_Tico shrugged. "Same."_

_Jon shook his head again, disbelieving. How could a man almost throw himself into the abyss and no one notices a thing? He slowly turned around to face the room, to look at the spot where he'd stood, pounding on the glass, shouting Richie's name. His heartbeat spiked just from the memory. He knew what he'd seen._

_"You think I'm making this up?" he asked without looking back. "Are you all fucking nuts?"_

_No answer, and Jon didn't know whether to laugh or rage. He wanted both._

_He turned toward Richie, still crouched against the wall, looking dazed. But Jon wasn't buying it. He knew. He'd seen what that thing inside of Richie could do …_

_And just like that, it dawned on him. Clear as day. He smiled a little at the epiphany._

_"You're trying to make me look crazy. Aren't you?"_

_Richie finally lifted his head. "Swear to God, Jonny. I don't know what you're talkin' about."_

_Anyone else might have seen only confusion or distress in those eyes. But Jon saw a flash of the darkness underneath. There and gone, but he'd caught it. Clear as day._

 

"Jon? Seriously, you're worrying me. You sound … off."

Jon curled his toes against the cold. "M'sorry, Dot. It's kinda complicated."

And it was obvious he'd be alone in figuring it out. It felt like a lifetime ago when they'd all come at him, begging him to talk to Richie. Now they seemed to think _he_ was the crazy one.

The only reason Jon was lying in this freezing room was Dave's insistence that he leave Richie alone. Like he needed to _protect_ him.

 

_"I'm not taking sides, man. I just think you should get some sleep in your own bed. You've been watching out for him for days … You're fried."_

_Jon knew it was bullshit. Dave still thought he was somehow responsible for slicing up Richie's back. Well, fuck him. He had no idea …_

_But Jon also knew when a simple lie was in order._

_"Yeah," he said. "You're probably right."_

_He turned his back on Dave and walked to his room._

 

Dot sighed. "Explain it to me."

Jon rolled onto his side and drew his knees up. "I can't. Not right now."

"Why?" 

"I'm just tired, baby. Listen, I should go -- Sorry I woke you."

"Wait. You didn't even answer my question. Is Rich OK?"

_No. He's not._

"He'll be fine. Actually, I need to check on him."

"Now?"

"Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow. And don't worry -- I'm taking care of things."

*****

He was a little surprised when Richie answered the door. He'd expected him to be dead to the world, or too pissed to deal with anything. Then again, maybe he didn't even remember.

"Hey," Jon said softly, trying to look contrite. "Did I wake you?"

Richie shook his head then looked past Jon, quickly scanning the hall like he expected someone else to be there.

"Can I come in?"

Richie dipped his chin, hesitating for a beat before moving aside.

"Thanks." Jon took a few steps inside then turned around. "I, uh, left my socks here."

He smiled in the practiced, faux-shy way that the girls loved. That Richie loved.

Richie leaned back against the door and studied him. "They're the only pair you own?"

Jon shrugged. "They're my favorite."

Richie smiled tentatively, and Jon sensed some of the tension in the air fall away. 

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "For everything I said. It's just -- You scared the shit outta me, man. I was so angry, I …"

It wasn't that he thought he was wrong -- No one would convince him of that. But he was sorry. None of it was Richie's fault. It was that _thing._

Richie looked toward the balcony. "I didn't … I don't remember doing any of the things you said."

Jon stepped forward and Richie straightened up, standing at his full height. Apparently he was still feeling skittish, so Jon halted.

"I know," he said mildly. "I know you don't remember. But lately, there's been lots of things you don't remember. Right?"

Richie darted his eyes to the side. "I guess."

Jon blew out a breath. "Listen, I don't wanna argue. I wanna sleep. But I couldn't 'cause I'm too worried about you."

Richie frowned slightly, and Jon took another step toward him. He felt warmer already.

"Can I stay here?"

Richie didn't answer right away, so Jon smiled sheepishly. He knew how to make Richie do what he wanted. "For me? I'll feel better this way."

*****

He studied the outline of Richie's form in the dark. He could tell from the way he was breathing that he wasn't sleeping -- just pretending. Richie had always been terrible at pretending.

"Rich?"

Nothing.

"Hey. I know you're awake."

Richie mumbled something indecipherable.

"Rich. Remember when we got back from the show? I gave you two sedatives."

Richie shifted his legs. "Mm-hmm."

"So you should've been unconscious all night. Not standing on a balcony smoking."

Richie sighed. "Well, I woke up. Guess their drugs don't work so good."

"What woke you up?"

Silence. So Jon scooted over and laid a hand on Richie's shoulder -- feeling an instant contraction in the muscles there. "What woke you?" he pressed, ignoring the signal. "Do you remember?"

Jon waited, picturing Richie gnawing on his bottom lip.

"I heard something," he finally replied.

"What did you hear?"

"Jonny, why does it matter?"

_I don't know._

"It just does. You know how I am."

Richie exhaled a little laugh. "Yeah."

"So?"

"Jesus Christ." Richie brushed some hair from his face, temporarily shaking his arm free from Jon's grasp. "I, uh, thought it was a voice. I mean, I'm almost sure it was."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I thought it was you -- y'know, talking in your sleep."

"But it wasn't," Jon prompted.

Richie fidgeted before answering. "It seemed like you. It seemed close by. But it wasn't your voice."

Jon felt a sinking sensation in his chest. "Whose voice was it?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sure it was in the room? Maybe it was someone's TV. Or one of their girls."

Richie huffed in annoyance. "I've been in enough hotel rooms to know the difference. It was right here. I would've sworn it was you, but …"

Jon felt the heaviness move down into his gut. "But you know better?"

Richie didn't reply, so Jon pressed on. "What did the voice say?"

"Nothing. It -- It wasn't English. Maybe it wasn't even words. Just sounds." 

Jon stared at Richie's back and gently squeezed his shoulder. 

"And that's what woke you up?"

"Uh-huh."

Jon started sliding his hand along Richie's arm. "Why'd you go out to the balcony?"

"To get away."

Jon stilled his hand. "From what?"

"The sound."

Jon felt goose bumps rise on his skin as a picture came into focus. "Rich? Did the voice tell you to go out there?"

He winced as Richie abruptly pulled away from him.

" _No,_ " he denied, looking back over his shoulder. "It wasn't like that." He let his head drop to the pillow again. "I just wanted some space. Needed a smoke."

"OK," Jon said automatically. He slid over to curl around Richie, being careful about his back. "I'm sorry, OK?"

Richie's whole body felt rigid in his arms, but he held on anyway. He couldn't think about letting go now.

"Jon?" Richie's voice caught a little. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No." Jon felt a flicker of anger at the accusation, but he pushed it down. "I told you I'm sorry for what I said … I wasn't myself."

Richie lay still, so Jon tried again. "You didn't imagine these slashes on your back, right? Something did it to you."

Richie took a shaky breath. "And you think that's the voice I heard? The … _something?_ "

"Yeah," Jon said, like it wasn't insane at all. 

They fell silent for a while before Richie spoke again. "I didn't take the sedatives."

"What?" Jon was taken off-guard by the confession.

"You gave them to me, but I didn't take them."

Jon slid a hand to Richie's, pressing it. "Why, though?" 

"I dunno. I just … didn't wanna take them."

"You have to take them," Jon said firmly. "You do better when they knock you out."

"Well, I wanted to see if …"

"What?" Jon squeezed his hand tighter. "What did you wanna see?"

Richie pulled his hand free. "I don't know."

Jon shut his eyes, trying to rein in his agitation. If Richie had just taken his pills, maybe this whole night would never have happened …

_He doesn't listen. Never has._

"Rich. The pills help you," he repeated calmly. 

"Yeah."

"So you'll take them from now on?"

"Yeah … Sorry."

Jon sighed heavily then found Richie's hand again, this time loosely interlacing their fingers. "It's OK. It was a mistake."

As they lay there, he felt Richie relax into him bit by bit. Sensed him getting heavier, resisting less. Heading toward sleep even without drugs.

_Good. He needs to trust me. He needs to listen to me._

Jon leaned in, bringing his lips to Richie's ear, kissing the soft skin there.

"Don't worry. I'm gonna take better care of you from now on."


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Things got … a little weird. Richie's kinda freaky sometimes."
> 
> Dave's mouth fell open. "What? Like …"

"Jonny. If he did what you said, then that's seriously fucked up, man. He needs help."

Jon dumped another sugar packet into his coffee. "I know. I'm helping him."

Dave pressed his lips together. "Right. I mean professional help."

"We tried that. The doctor said his blood tests were fine. They think he's just exhausted."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Richie said the doctor recommended an MRI of his brain, just in case. They'd both left the idea hanging in the air -- Richie, probably because he was scared. Jon … He wasn't sure why. But he had a visceral reaction to the thought of Richie being taken away from him now -- even for a day.

"Well, that is clearly fucking stupid," Dave pronounced. "And he hasn't seen, y'know … a psychiatrist."

Jon stirred the sugar in, working his jaw, trying not to lash out. "I'm not sticking him in a mental hospital or some shit."

Dave regarded him for a moment, like he was trying to puzzle something out. "That's not actually your decision to make, Jon. Has anyone called his parents?"

_No. Absolutely fucking not._

"He talks to them all the time," Jon hedged. "You know he's a mamma's boy."

"Uh-huh. And does he say, 'Hey, ma, by the way, some lunatic chewed my skin off and I'm thinking of throwing myself off a balcony'?'"

Jon took a sip of coffee. It was already cold.

"Not sure. I'll have him wire tapped."

"Listen, man --"

"Maybe the doctor's right," Jon talked over him. "About the exhaustion. I've heard sleep loss can really mess you up -- like, even make you psychotic."

Dave bobbed his head. "Yeah, OK. But Rich sleeps more than anyone I've ever met over the age of two --"

"Not anymore he doesn't," Jon corrected, feeling vaguely smug about it -- having the knowledge no one else had. "And half the time he just drinks till he passes out. I don't think that counts as a good night's sleep."

"Fine," Dave acquiesced. "Let's say he's exhausted. Let's say you're _both_ fucking fried beyond recognition, and that explains why you lived two different versions of last night."

Jon took another sip from his mug, letting the disgusting cold sweetness coat his tongue and fill his throat.

Dave put his forearms on the table. "How would that explain all those cuts on his back?"

Jon cast his eyes down. He supposed he could tell him an invisible creature had attacked Richie that night. At this point, he probably couldn't sink much lower in Dave's estimation. But he'd always known when it was time for a lie.

"OK, listen." Jon glanced at their surroundings then leaned in. "We were high. Like, out of our minds."

Dave's eyes widened, and Jon had to fight off a smirk.

"Things got … a little weird. Richie's kinda freaky sometimes."

Dave's mouth fell open. "What? Like …"

Jon kept his face impassive as Dave's eyes started to bug out. "But he was screaming like someone was killing him."

Jon shrugged a shoulder. "So? You've heard how it gets with the chicks sometimes."

"Well, yeah, but … With _you?_ Are you fucking kidding me?"

Jon sat back and shrugged again. "Things just got outta hand, man. We learned our lesson, though."

Dave continued to stare, and his obvious shock was a little jarring -- since he'd flat-out asked Jon if he and Richie had gotten up to something that night. 

Dave shook his head, blinking a few times like he was coming out of a trance. "Jesus Christ. How long has this been going on?"

"It's not a _thing,_ " Jon lied. "It's just happened a few times when we're wasted. Don't get all weird about it, man."

Dave laughed, sharp and incredulous. "You're telling _me_ not to get weird?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he continued, glib as hell, "I guess that's why Rich told you I did it. Technically, it's true."

Dave furrowed his brow. "Wait. What are you talkin' about?"

Jon felt a little swoop in his belly. "Well … You told me, remember? You said you went to see him and he told you it was me."

Dave held his hands up, palms splayed. "Whoa, I never said that. Rich hasn't told me shit."

Jon's heart started thumping against his ribs. "No. We were sitting in that hotel restaurant, just like now." He tapped his fingers on the table. "And you said you went to his room, and he told you --"

He trailed off as Dave's expression started to shift toward alarm.

"Jonny, listen. I _tried_ to talk to you the next day -- both of you. Every time I knocked on Rich's door, or called, no one answered. Do you remember that?"

_No. I don't._

Jon dipped his chin, forced a little laugh, even as his chest threatened to cave in. "You know what? Never mind." He glanced up. "It must've been a dream. That night was ... insane."

Dave nodded slightly. "Yeah."

_It must've been a dream. Must've still been asleep, and then …_

No. He'd talked to Dave, he was sure of it. Then he'd gone to Richie's room to re-do his bandages, and … Richie told him Dave was never there.

_OK. OK._

So maybe he hadn't talked to Dave? Jon closed his eyes, trying to see the replay. He knew he'd called Dot … Maybe he'd just fallen asleep after that. 

_No. No, that's not right._

He remembered walking from the restaurant to Richie's room. He could see the hallways, with their red carpets and gold wallpaper. He remembered mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Richie. He remembered being furious with him for lying to Dave.

He remembered catching sight of himself in a gold-framed mirror outside the elevator. How he'd stopped, transfixed by the anger he saw burning in his own image. How he'd closed his eyes and willed it to go away.

He remembered that when he walked into the room and saw Richie lying there in pain, the anger let go of him. He remembered how the sight seemed to turn a light on inside of him, at least for a while …

"Jon?" 

He looked up to see Dave squinting at him. 

"You OK?"

Jon nodded. "Yeah."

_I'm fine._

It was just a bit of lost time. No big deal. Probably even normal, considering what he'd been through that night … what that _thing_ had put him through.

_Put us through,_ he amended.

He looked Dave in the eye, flashed a quick smile. "I'm fine."

*****

Richie had done what he promised and taken his sedatives. Jon knew because he'd handed him the water glass, watched him swallow, saw his Adam's apple bob. Kissed him right after, so he couldn't hide the pills in his mouth.

Just in case.

There was no show that night, so they'd turned in just after midnight. No alcohol. Just prescription pills and bed. Richie didn't even seem to mind it anymore.

Except right now, something was wrong. Jon watched, eyes wide open, as Richie's body twitched and jerked inches away from him. Listened to the little whimpers escaping his lips, how his breath hitched every now and then. He wondered what was playing out in that messed up head.

"Rich," he finally said, growing weary of the spectacle. "Wake up."

Another whimper. A couple half-formed words that meant nothing. 

"Rich." Jon reached out to shake his shoulder, and in a flash Richie was sitting up, scooting toward the edge of the bed.

"Hey," Jon said, extending his hand into the dark. "It's just me."

Richie took a couple long breaths. "OK … I know."

Jon pulled his hand back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Seemed like you were having a bad dream."

Richie sighed then slumped down into the pillows. "Yeah. Sort of."

"Wanna tell me?"

"No."

"Tell me."

Richie huffed a little laugh then scrubbed a hand over his face. "So it's not a question."

Jon just kept watching his silhouette. _Tell me._ He couldn't let Richie have secrets anymore.

"Um. It was almost like a flashback, I guess."

"To what?"

"When we were in Detroit."

Jon's gut twisted. They hadn't talked about that since the night Richie claimed things were crawling on him in bed. And somehow the idea was making him inexplicably nervous now.

"What? What about it?"

Richie tossed a forearm over his eyes. "Well. I still can't remember much. I drank a lot that night when I came back, so …"

_Of course._ That was Richie. Whenever something unpleasant happened, he drank until he obliterated the memory.

"What _do_ you remember?"

"That it wasn't fun." Richie laughed in a hollow sort of way. "I drank that tea and then puked, like, five minutes later. The … whatever you call them -- helper people? They said it was because I had too many _toxins_ in me. Go figure."

"Yeah, go figure … What else?"

"Um. They gave me some more of the stuff, and … I dunno. I just remember being freaked out, but I can't picture exactly why. I know I was shaking. Like, for a while after I came down I couldn't move. I was just shaking."

Jon seemed to feel the words in his bones, and he was struck with a clear image of Richie lying on the floor of some godforsaken warehouse. He shook his head. "Why?"

"I don't know. They said it was normal."

"Sure," Jon said, with an unintended edge of bitterness. "If the helper people say it's normal --"

"Well, since I couldn't move, I pretty much had to listen to them."

"Jesus," Jon muttered. "What was the fucking point of the whole thing? To get freaked out?"

Richie paused before answering. "It's supposed to help you see things clearly."

Jon laughed derisively. Drugs to help you see clearly. Of course.

"But you can't remember anything. You should get your goddamn money back --"

"It's my fault," Richie cut him off. "Apparently, you're not supposed to go home and smoke a blunt and down half of bottle of Stoli."

Jon laughed again. "For Christ's sake, Rich."

There was an undefined anger welling inside of him, and part of him wanted to understand it, identify its source. Another part just wanted to unleash it. Before he could make the choice, Richie's voice pulled him back.

"I can remember something he told me."

Jon found himself fully present again, watching Richie's profile, waiting.

"He said … I'd lost part of my _soul._ He said I use alcohol and drugs and sex to fill the space. And I need to get the lost part back."

"No," Jon objected without thinking. "That's not true."

Richie laughed softly, in that same empty way. "Really? It kinda made sense to me."

He turned onto his side to face Jon, their lips only a few inches apart.

"Sometimes I feel that way, y'know?"

Jon clenched his jaw as the swell inside threatened to surface again.

"After all this time on the road," Richie went on. "All the partying, all the random women. Everything that's happened between you and me … Sometimes it's like I don't remember who I am."

Richie scanned his face, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and Jon felt himself curling in defensively. He didn't know what Richie was looking for, or seeing.

"Don't you ever feel that way, Jonny? Like you've lost part of your soul?"

Jon squeezed his hand into a fist then released it. "No."

Richie blinked slowly. "Never? You think you're the same person you were three years ago? Or one year ago?"

"Of course not," Jon snapped. "I'm a lot fucking smarter now. A lot less gullible. You obviously aren't -- drinking their Kool-Aid and listening to their bullshit."

Richie didn't move a muscle. He just kept focusing on Jon's eyes, like he was contemplating something. "OK … Forget it. I don't wanna fight."

"Then stop trying to turn this on me."

"Turn what? I'm trying to have a conversation."

"Right," Jon bit out. "I know what you're doing."

It was that thing inside of Richie. The thing that was trying to convince Jon -- and everyone else -- that there was something wrong with _him._

Richie's gaze never faltered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

_Sure you don't. You think you can fool me?_

Jon closed his eyes, told himself to drag the anger back down -- bury it in his gut. It wasn't Richie's fault.

"Listen," Richie murmured. "I think we're too tired for this."

Jon inhaled deeply, hoping to steady his voice.

"Yeah -- You're right. Let's try to sleep … You need another sedative?"

Their eyes locked again. "No," Richie said. "I'm fine."

Jon reached out to cup his cheek, feeling the warmth there flood into his palm and fill his chest. He smiled a little.

"Go to sleep, baby. We'll both feel better in the morning."

*****

"I think he's getting better."

"Really? That's good news."

"Yeah. Lately, he's not drinking or -- doing anything really. He's like a Mormon with long hair and earrings."

Dot chuckled. "And spandex."

"And spandex," Jon agreed. "Anyway, he's sleeping more, and his memory isn't as shot as it used to be."

"Guess he just needed to become a Mormon."

"Right. Catholics party too hard."

They were quiet then, and Jon could hear the sound of running water. Maybe she was washing dishes, cleaning up from dinner. He tried to picture it.

"What about you?" she asked. "How are you?"

"Me? I'm good … I'm great." He squeezed his eyes shut to hold on to the picture. "We'll be back on the East Coast soon."

"I know." Dot sighed. "I really miss you."

Jon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to say he missed her. But more than that, he wanted to tell her. Tell her everything. Even about the dream he'd had last night, though he knew it might scare her … The dream where he'd given Richie extra sedatives -- enough to make sure he was out cold. And then he'd pulled out a knife and held it to Richie's chest, because he'd decided there was no choice now but to dig that thing out of him.

He'd woken up before anything happened. But for a few horrifying seconds, he was convinced it wasn't a dream. And he'd sat there in bed, his whole body shaking, staring at Richie's back in the dark.

"Jon? Did you hear me?" 

He bit his lip -- so hard he tasted blood. "Yeah. I miss you, too."

*****

"It's because I'm not drinking."

Jon looked at Richie's reflection in the mirror. "What?"

Richie smiled at him from his perch at the foot of the bed. "You haven't let me drink, or smoke, or snort ever since I've been on the sedatives. That's why my head is getting clearer."

Jon turned and leaned back against the dresser. "That's good, right?"

"Of course." Richie looked off to the side, toward the balcony, then back again. "And you seem better, too. Maybe 'cause I'm not waking you all the time?" he ventured, sounding a little unsure.

Jon returned the smile. "Yeah. I do feel better."

He'd be damned if he was spilling the truth -- that he was lying awake half the night, watching Richie, on guard against the thing inside him. He'd simply gotten better at masking his feelings over the past few days. Self-control was one of his greatest qualities. He'd just forgotten that for a while.

He noticed then that Richie's eyes were roaming his body, his smile evolving into something different as his gaze settled on Jon's crotch. Subtlety had never been Richie's strong suit, at least in hotel rooms. And that was fine. Jon didn't need subtlety.

Richie glanced up. "I was thinking I should thank you."

_Of course you were._

Jon smirked. "You're actually licking your lips. You want it that bad?"

Richie had the decency to look slightly embarrassed as he nodded. But Jon didn't need that, either. He needed that tongue, those lips. He needed to push inside … Despite everything, he still needed it.

He wondered, fleetingly, if that made him insane.

Jon walked to the bed and stood between Richie's spread legs. "Sure you wanna get that close?" he asked, crossing his arms, letting it be Richie's decision to make contact.

He felt two hands slide up the backs of his thighs to cup his ass -- and assumed that was his answer. 

But Richie shook his head. "No. But I wanna do it anyway. I miss you."

Jon almost winced as a heat bloomed and spread across his chest. It wasn't a romantic kind of warmth. Or even lustful. It was sharp and painful. And he needed it to go away.

So he sprawled himself out on the bed.

Richie still couldn't be on his back for very long, but he had no problem getting on his hands and knees. No difficulty slowly unbuttoning Jon's shirt, torturing him with too-light touches and flicks of the tongue. Nuzzling his navel, exhaling hotly over his erection. 

Almost from the first time, he'd known exactly how to make Jon's façade crumble till he lost control. Till every thought, hurt feeling and resentment yielded to pure animal pleasure.

But not this time. For once, Jon knew he wasn't being pulled by physical need, or love, or any piece of the complicated mess he felt for Richie. It was something else he couldn't grasp.

He hissed as Richie's tongue pressed against the base of his cock … writhed against the sheets as it slowly dragged upward to tease his tip.

But even as the shell of his body gave in to the physical bliss, Jon sensed that cinder inside his chest, trying to reignite … to burn its way out. He had to give it a way out.

"God, Rich. _Yes,_ " he whispered, sliding both hands to Richie's head, massaging behind his ears. Richie moaned around him.

_Such a slut._

Jon tightened his hold and bucked up into the wet heat. Smiled a little when Richie choked and pulled back partway -- but only partway -- then dove right back in.

_Shameless little slut._

Jon groaned at the thought, at the maddening suction, at everything. He dug his fingertips into Richie's scalp, felt that soft hair envelop his hands. And for an instant, he imagined what it would be like to pull it out from the roots … 

But not now. Now, he just needed to let it out -- the burning, the anger, the resentment. The _thing_ that was pounding on his chest wall. So he held fast to Richie's head as he emptied into him, even when he felt those hands fly to his forearms, trying to pry him away.

He had to get it out. He needed Richie to take it.

There were some moments then where time seemed to stop, where Jon's hearing seemed to be drawn into a vacuum and his other senses followed. Where his body seemed to be weightless and floating. Where finally … finally, he felt the freedom of being empty.

His lips parted, and he was sure he would've said Richie's name if he'd had the chance. Instead, something hit his body with the shock of ice-cold water.

Jon gasped as his eyes snapped open and he saw nothing but the ceiling above him. Felt nothing but the heaviness of his bones holding him down.

_The fuck? Where …_

He lost the question as his power of hearing came roaring back and he found himself recoiling from the sounds beside him on the bed. 

"Rich?" he asked, his own voice echoing in his ears.

He turned his head to see Richie sitting on his haunches, doubled over and choking.

"Rich?" Jon rolled onto his side. "You OK? I …"

_What did I do? What did I do?_

Richie kept coughing violently, and Jon tried again.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why ..."

That was all he could say, because that was all he knew. So he simply watched as Richie's breath and body settled bit by bit. Until there was a stillness in the air.

"Rich? Are you OK?"

Richie kept his back to him -- still wearing his button-down shirt to hide his bandages. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "Jesus Christ, Jon."

Jon tried to sit up, but couldn't find the strength. "I swear I don't know what happened … I'm sorry."

He froze as Richie suddenly folded into himself again, groaning and clutching his stomach. " _Ugh._ Fuck … Gonna be sick."

And then he was pushing to his feet, staggering to the bathroom. Jon felt a chill seep deeper and deeper into his body as he listened to Richie cough and retch and pant -- all of it bouncing off the tile walls and wrapping around him.

He closed his eyes against it, because he couldn't even try to unravel what was happening. It was exhausting to keep asking the air and never get an answer.

Gradually, Richie quieted until his exhalations were coming in sighs. And eventually Jon heard the sound of running water. He didn't need to see -- He knew Richie was trying to wash away the last remnants of what happened. 

He tried not to picture it.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They hadn't been alone together since their uneasy truce the night before, and Jon knew he wouldn't be welcome. But it seemed he couldn't sleep alone anymore.

_He watched Richie's back as he sat there, silent and still, on the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure how long they'd been suspended like this, but it seemed like forever._

_"Rich … I don't know what's wrong, but I can't really move right now. Can I stay here?"_

_No answer._

_"If you don't wanna be near me, you could go to my room."_

_Richie shook his head. "Your room is freezing."_

_It seemed like a strange reason -- not what Jon expected. "What?"_

_"It's freezing. Always." Richie turned his head a bit, but didn't look at him. "Don't you notice?"_

_Jon tried to think about it, but it didn't make sense. "I guess not … Rich? Can I stay?"_

_Richie exhaled heavily. "Yeah." He reached toward the bedside lamp, keeping his back to Jon._

_"Go to sleep," he murmured as the room plunged into darkness._

 

And he had, almost instantly. He'd been so bone-tired, so heavy in his brain, he couldn't have resisted the pull of sleep if he'd tried.

But now he was wired again, sitting alone in his room, staring at the balcony. He kept trying to think back and put the pieces of the last few weeks together, force them into a shape that held. He wanted to go to Richie and tell him he understood what was happening -- that he'd figured it out, like he'd said he would.

But each time he managed to string the scenes together in his mind, he doubted them … wondered whether he'd just been dreaming, or drunk, or believing some seed that Richie had planted to confuse him.

_Not Richie,_ he reminded himself. _It's not him doing it._

Not Richie, who currently wanted nothing to do with him. Jon had woken to find the space next to him empty. He'd found out later that Richie had gone to Dave for help with his bandages. He could only imagine what they'd said to each other. Maybe they'd decided Jon was the one who should be shipped off to the loony bin.

_No. They need me. They all do._

He blew out a breath. He knew he had to get unstuck -- get his head ready for the show that night. Because the show must go on, even if it killed him. Or Richie. Or all of them.

He laughed out loud, alone in his room.

Not that long ago, he used to think he'd die if they didn't make it -- if he ended up as some loser trapped in the Jersey bar circuit, never known outside his hometown.

He used to think he'd die without this life. And now he thought it might kill him …

_There has to be a song there somewhere._ He almost smiled. _Need to tell Rich._

Just like that, the cinder flickered in his chest again, and it became harder to breathe. Jon laid a palm over his heart, felt it racing, like it was trying to escape.

He needed to tell Richie. Needed to see him. Needed this thing to go away.

*****

"Are you drunk?" Jon asked as soon as Richie opened the door.

Richie crossed his arms, took on a defensive stance. Jon supposed he would've, too -- It was a fucked-up greeting, after all.

"No. Are you?"

Jon shook his head. "Stone-cold sober." He flashed a smile. "It's three a.m., and we're both alone in our hotel rooms, not even drunk. What have our lives come to?"

Richie smiled wanly but said nothing. They hadn't been alone together since their uneasy truce the night before, and Jon knew he wouldn't be welcome. But it seemed he couldn't sleep alone anymore. All he could do was lie there, eyes wide open, till the stirring inside made him feel like he was going crazy …

He shifted his weight on his feet. "Can I come in?"

Richie's whole body visibly tensed. "Why?"

"I wanna talk. We should."

Richie studied him in silence, in that same way he'd been doing for days -- like he was trying to read something in Jon's face.

"I guess," he said, then stepped aside just enough.

The moment he crossed the threshold, Jon felt the heat in his chest spread and claw down the sides of his ribs. He halted for a moment to let it pass.

"I wanted to," Richie said.

Jon turned to see him leaning back against the door. "I wanted to get wasted," he clarified. "Still want to. But it seems like a bad idea."

"Since when does that stop you?" Jon asked, already walking away, toward the balcony.

Richie didn't follow. "What do you wanna talk about?"

Jon dropped into a chair. He didn't want to talk about anything. He just wanted to be in this room. Richie was right -- It was warmer here.

"Will you come sit by me?"

Richie eyed him before warily moving closer -- the crosses around his neck glinting in the lamplight. For some reason, Jon couldn't take his eyes off them as Richie sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What do you wanna talk about?" Richie repeated.

Jon smiled a little. "Honestly? Now that I'm here, I'm kinda tired."

Richie laughed humorlessly then hung his head. "OK … You're right, though. We need to talk. I wasn't planning on it being now, but …"

Jon fidgeted in his chair. He didn't want to listen -- He just wanted to be there. 

Richie slid back on the bed and drew his bare legs up, sitting cross-legged. "I've been remembering more -- yesterday, and especially today when I was alone. You wanna hear?"

Jon folded his arms over his middle, against the increasingly insistent push from inside. "Yeah. Of course."

Richie looked away, toward the nightstand where his pill bottle sat. "I remember what I saw that night -- after I drank the ayahuasca."

A prickling sensation rolled across Jon's skin, taking him off-guard. He tried to bury it. "Wow. That's a big word you remembered."

Richie ignored the taunt. "Actually, that's not right. I don't remember what I _saw._ That was all trippy and …" He sighed. "What I remember is, I freaked out because I thought I was gonna die."

Jon felt a hint of relief. It sounded like a run-of-the-mill bad trip. "All right. That's happened to you before. Remember that party in Vancouver --"

"No." Richie's voice suddenly had a sharper edge. "This was different."

"How?"

Richie started bouncing a knee up and down -- an old nervous habit. "Because this was … I _knew_ I was gonna die, and I knew exactly how it would happen."

He locked eyes with Jon. "From something choking me, and then ripping me apart. Something that wanted to tear my heart out."

Jon stared, trying to think of a response, but the gnawing sensation inside was consuming too much of him. He could only watch Richie's lips intently as he kept talking.

"They told me that sometimes happens to people. They said if you feel like you're dying, that's 'cause you're afraid of letting something go."

To Jon, it sounded like new-age bullshit -- but it also sounded neat and simple.

"OK," he managed. "Then there you go."

Richie looked past him, toward the balcony -- or maybe past that, too. The light caught the crosses around his neck once more, and Jon found his attention being drawn to them. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to stay present.

"Rich, it was a bad trip. Just forget it."

Richie dipped his chin. "It wasn't just that, though."

Jon sighed, his reserve of patience almost tapped out. "What else? Just tell me everything."

Richie smiled faintly. "Y'know, you never even asked me why I went in the first place."

"Huh?"

"When I tried to tell you about it, you didn't wanna listen. You didn't ask me anything. You just walked away."

Jon felt his chest tighten. Maybe he had -- but that was his right, wasn't it?

"I don't remember doing that. If I did … It doesn't matter. Tell me now."

Richie looked at him from under his messy fringe of hair. "The reason I went is … Well, mostly for the drugs. Good ol' American drugs weren't doin' the job anymore."

"What's the _job?_ " Jon pressed, growing more and more agitated.

Richie shrugged. "Making me feel better. I was feeling pretty bad for a while. I … I kinda thought I was losing it."

Jon's heart was pounding now. "What do you mean?"

"It was different things. But mostly I felt like something was changing between you and me." He held up a hand. "Not just 'cause you and Dot got married."

Jon gripped the arm of his chair. He didn't need that old fight again -- not now.

Richie dropped his gaze and spoke in a rush. "It was like, when I'd look in your eyes, sometimes they seemed … empty. The spark wasn't there."

He started plucking at the blanket underneath him. "And when we'd talk, it was like you were just saying things to me -- not really having a conversation. And … when we'd be together, you just _felt_ different."

Jon splayed his hand open on the chair arm. "Not sure what you mean, Rich."

Richie bit his lip. "I'm just telling you where my head was. I thought maybe I was depressed or … I dunno what. But I started drinkin' more, and trying different things to distract myself."

_Distract yourself._

Jon smiled a little as realization dawned. "Are you blaming me for all of this?"

Richie's eyes widened a fraction. "No. I'm just telling you why I went there … That girl Emily -- remember her? She told me she knew this guy in Detroit who was a healer and helped her get through some shit."

He huffed a laugh. "I was like, some dude in _Detroit?_ But she swore he was legit, and --"

"And you'd get to take some drugs you couldn't even pronounce," Jon cut him off. "So you were all for it."

Richie set his jaw. "Yeah. I already admitted that."

Jon wrapped his fingers around the chair arm again. "So, OK. You thought there was something wrong with _me,_ so you went to see this shady stranger and took drugs. Is that the whole story?"

Richie glowered at him. "No."

"Then what else?"

Richie looked back and forth between Jon and the nightstand, like he was trying to decide on something. "After I came back, the next day -- things were worse."

Jon frowned. "How?"

Richie aimed his eyes at his pills. "I started seeing things. Things that couldn't be real. Like …"

" _What?_ " Jon demanded, sick of having to pull every word out of him. His eyes landed on those crosses again, and his arm started trembling. He had an urge to move … to pounce … to rip those chains off of Richie's neck --

"I was seeing things around you."

Jon's train of thought skidded to a stop, and the trembling moved down and out through his fingertips.

He leaned forward in his chair. "What _things?_ "

Richie licked his lips. "It's, um, hard to describe. At first, it seemed like a shadow, right next to you. I'd see, like, a flash of it, and then it was gone."

Jon stared straight ahead, but his vision was suddenly swimming. The movement inside started to morph into a weight, settling around his lungs. It felt like he was fading somehow, and the weight inside was taking over.

So he focused his eyes on Richie's face, until his features grew clearer.

"I started seeing it more and more, every day," Richie went on. "I'd see it onstage. I'd see it when we were alone. And then I started _feeling_ it, y'know? You felt colder and … heavier."

Jon could see Richie's eyes shining now. He supposed he should feel sorry for him. But he didn't.

"I thought I was going nuts." Richie sniffed and swiped at his eyes. "So I started drinkin' even more. Doing whatever drugs it took to forget … But it just made things worse."

He shook his head. "I know you and the guys saw it, but I couldn't tell you."

Jon curled his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm. "What do you think is wrong with you?"

Richie's lower lip trembled a little. "He told me I'd lost part of my soul."

Jon kept pressing his nails down, wondering if he could break the flesh from that alone. 

"He told me I had to get it back. He said it could be dangerous if I didn't." Richie looked him dead in the eyes. "'Cause every once in a while, when someone loses enough of their soul, something else can get in."

Jon realized his jaw was clenched so tight, he was grinding his teeth. It felt like they could shatter if he went on like that. He needed some kind of relief. Something to sink his teeth into.

He heard Richie's voice, continuing. "He said it's usually not even obvious. Like, it's usually a spirit that's drawn to you and doesn't mean any harm. But sometimes it's … a lot worse than that."

Richie's eyes were shining just as bright as the crosses now -- They were almost blinding.

Jon blinked. "Are you trying to tell me you think a _bad spirit_ got inside of you?"

Richie inched back on the bed. "No."

"Then _what?_ "

Richie's face twisted into something between a smile and a sob. "I don't think I'm crazy anymore. I don't think I ever was."

He exhaled and met Jon's gaze. "I think I've been seeing clearly."

Jon felt a surge of emotions all at once, but the one that clung was fear. And he hated it, wanted to lash out at it.

"Jonny," Richie said tentatively, still looking him in the eyes. "Don't you ever feel like you've lost part of your soul?"

Jon bit his lip, hard. _No. You're not gonna do this to me._

Richie slid back a little farther on the bed, edging toward the foot of it. "Jon?"

_You think I don't see what you're doing? I see fucking everything._

"Are you OK?"

Jon smiled a little. "I'm fine."

He quickly pushed to stand, feeling a grim satisfaction when Richie scrambled to his feet, too. He took a couple steps back as Jon approached him -- but only a couple -- and the distance was easy to bridge.

Jon reached to cup Richie's cheek, feeling its warmth seep into his palm. "Rich. I'm sorry."

Richie stared at him, and Jon could sense the fear under his hand -- replacing his own, rekindling his power, helping him find his self-control. 

"Sorry for what?"

Jon stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. "I haven't helped you like I should." 

Richie's jaw tensed, and Jon tried to smile in a reassuring way.

"I didn't realize how bad it was," he said softly. "I thought I could handle it myself. But there's obviously something deeply wrong with you, baby."

Richie started to back away, toward the door, and Jon felt the chill return to his hand.

"There's nothing wrong with me."

Jon followed him. "Rich. You're seeing things that aren't there. You're acting crazy. Drowning yourself in alcohol. And now you're telling me I'm … What? Possessed?"

Richie didn't answer. He just kept going until he hit the door, like he didn't want to turn his back on Jon.

_He's losing it. Poor son of a bitch._

"Rich," Jon said, as calmly as possible. "It's gonna be OK. Just let me help you."

Richie shook his head, feeling behind himself for the lock. "Go back to your room, Jon."

"Rich."

"There's nothing wrong with me." Richie turned just enough to open the door. "You hafta go. It's too late for this."

Jon refused to move. "What do you mean?"

Richie pulled the door open wider. "We can't talk now. It's too fucked up -- We're too tired."

Jon was going to object, keep pushing -- make himself understood. It was time. But in the distance, he heard the sound of elevator doors and then voices bouncing off the hallway walls. 

"OK," he relented. "We'll talk later." 

Richie nodded then stood back to let Jon through. As he walked out, he paused just outside the door, remembering.

"Rich?" he said, without looking back. "Make sure you take the sedatives -- so you can sleep."

There was no answer before the door closed behind him.

*****

"I'm sorry," Jon said the moment she picked up. "I know how late it is. I just -- I need to talk to you."

Dot groaned softly. "Jon, for God's sake. You can't keep doing this. I actually have to get up before noon."

"I know, baby, I'm sorry."

She sighed. "It's OK. What's wrong?"

Jon swallowed. He hadn't thought things out before he picked up the phone, and now he wasn't sure how to explain it all. He just knew he was confused and he needed her.

"Jon? Is it Rich again?"

Jon's gut twisted. He really did wonder how much she knew. If it was that obvious.

"Well," he began, "sort of. I mean, yeah -- definitely. But it's me, too."

Dot paused before answering. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just feeling … off. Not myself."

"That's not very specific, Jon."

Jon rubbed at his temple. "Sorry. It's hard to explain. I -- I've been having weird dreams and … weird thoughts. I thought it was from, y'know, the stress and no sleep. But now I'm not so sure."

"Why?"

Jon looked at the ceiling, trying to find the words. "I'm having these _physical_ feelings, too. Not sick exactly. Just … It's just not right."

He balked, thinking she would prompt him from there. But there was only silence. So he tried to fill in the blanks himself.

"Then I was talking to Rich just now, and he told me he's been noticing things for a while … He thinks there's something wrong with me."

Silence.

"Dot?"

"I'm here." Her voice sounded different -- harder, more alert. "So _Rich_ said you have a problem? But isn't he the one who's been a mess for weeks?"

Jon pulled his blanket up higher. _Yeah._

"Isn't _he_ the one who's on medication, and God knows what else?"

_Yeah._

"Isn't he the one who's always been the fuck-up, while you hold everything together?"

Jon shivered against the cold air touching his face, his fingers.

"Yeah. That's right."

They were quiet then, and Jon tried to listen for any sounds on the other end of the line -- something that would remind him of home. Of course, it was four in the morning and Dot was in bed. Still, he listened, for anything he could.

"Jon?" she finally said. "Don't you think he's gotten to be more than trouble than he's worth?"

Jon's breath caught in his throat. "What?"

She sighed. "Your body and your mind are shot. He's been draining you for … _forever._ And now he's got you thinking you're crazy."

Jon stared at the cracks in the ceiling. _Yeah._

"Why are you putting up with it? You don't have to. You're the boss."

"Yeah."

"It's time, Jon. You can't keep calling me in the middle of the night, whining like a fucking baby. It's time to fucking _do_ something about it."

Jon opened and closed his mouth. The words were so harsh -- They weren't like her at all.

But she was right. It was the truth.

"OK," he murmured. "I will."


	8. Eight

Jon took a gulp of his black coffee, letting it burn the roof of his mouth. It felt strangely good, the heat and pain left behind. He savored it while Dave watched him from across the table.

"Jon? What's goin' on? You're acting weird, man."

Jon slid his tongue over the burnt skin. "It's getting really bad," he confided. "I didn't realize how bad until last night."

Dave sat up straighter. "What happened?"

Jon sighed. "He's losing touch with reality, Davey. He told me he thinks he's _possessed_ \-- like, by a demon or something."

Dave stared for a few seconds, till the bewilderment in his face shifted toward suspicion. "Wait. You're fucking with me, right?"

A spark of anger rose from the pit of Jon's belly. That was Dave -- Everything was a fucking joke.

"You think I'd do that?" he challenged, keeping his voice even. "Like it's funny?"

Dave studied him, obviously focusing on his eyes -- just like Richie had been doing lately. Jon dropped his gaze and reached for his coffee cup.

"Jonny, relax," Dave finally said, with an uneasy chuckle. "You can't blame me. What you're saying is … well, nuts."

Jon took another swig from his mug, but the liquid had lost some of its burn. It wasn't satisfying anymore.

"How is it _nuts?_ You know how he's been acting. It's getting out of control now."

Dave looked down and shook his head. "I don't understand. I was with him yesterday, and we were talkin' for a long time. He seemed OK … or at least better than he's been."

Jon pressed his lips together, trying to find his composure before he spoke. "Believe me, man. He's bad. We gotta do something."

Dave slumped in his seat, looking a little dazed. "Have you told Doc?"

"Not yet. I wanted to let you know first. You gotta back me up on some stuff. You've seen how he gets."

"Well, yeah …"

Dave looked off to the side, but not before Jon caught the doubt in his face. A sense of foreboding fell over him -- Maybe he was too late. 

Jon leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. "You _know_ he's been fucked up. You came to me in the first place, for fuck's sake --"

"I know, OK?" Dave hissed, then looked around at the other tables. "But Jonny, a couple nights ago you told me he was gonna jump off a balcony. And he wasn't --"

"He _was_ \--"

"And now you're tellin' me he thinks he's possessed? That's … It's just hard to believe, OK?"

Jon watched as Dave squirmed in his chair, suddenly unwilling to make eye contact. And he knew. He knew Richie had gotten to him.

He flopped back in his chair. "So. You think I'm just making shit up now. Is that it?"

"I never said that."

"Then what are you saying?"

Dave huffed in frustration. "Listen. I'm worried about both of you right now."

Jon laughed outright. There was no use in being coy anymore.

"What did Rich say about me?"

Dave furrowed his brow, in poorly feigned confusion.

"When you had your big heart-to-heart yesterday," Jon sneered. "What did he tell you?"

Dave rolled his eyes. "Jonny, we weren't plotting behind your back, if that's what you're asking. We just talked -- y'know, like friends do. Like you and I used to."

Jon felt that spark of anger building on itself, rising. "Right. Before you two decided I'm the bad guy."

Dave let his head loll. "For Christ's sake, Jonny. I'm trying to understand what the fuck is going on here. Do you expect me to just buy everything you say -- no questions asked?"

Jon felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. At least he knew where he stood now. There was something empowering about that.

"I don't expect anything from you."

He downed the last of his coffee. It was cold and thick, and made him crave something warm …

"Gotta go."

"Jon --"

He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'll see you later, Davey."

"Wait." Dave shot to his feet. "We're not done."

Jon smirked. "Yeah, we are."

Dave lunged to grasp his arm. "Hey -- Are you at least gonna talk to Doc? Like you said?"

"Yeah." Jon looked pointedly at Dave's hand, and he released his grip. "I'm taking care of this. Like I take care of fucking everything."

Dave eyed him for a long moment before nodding. "OK. Do what you need to do, man."

Jon turned on his heel, unsure of where he was heading. He only knew that Dot was right. He couldn't tolerate this anymore. He had to make things right.

*****

"OK, what the fuck is going on?"

As soon as he heard Doc's voice on the line, he knew. That little shit had gone running to daddy.

Jon folded his free arm behind his head and settled back against the pillows. All he wanted was to lie down and figure out what to do next. He'd knocked on Richie's door, but gotten no answer. So he'd knocked again, and again, and again … until the sound was echoing down the hall and in his ears. Until his knuckles hurt, because at least that little pain made him feel better.

"Jon? You hear me? What the _fuck_ is going on?"

Jon exhaled heavily. "Not sure what you mean, Doc."

"Well, Dave called me today and told me some strange shit."

Jon gazed at the ceiling. "That sounds like Dave's problem then."

Doc snorted. "Maybe. But he thinks I need to sit down with you and Rich, because he's worried about both of you now. You got something to tell me?"

Jon felt his eyes becoming dry, and he realized he wasn't blinking. _Huh._

"Jon?"

"Nope. I don't know what Dave's talking about."

"Really? He said you told him Richie's going off the deep end -- that he's having delusions."

Jon kept staring at the whiteness above. "Oh, that. Dave can't take a joke, I guess."

There was only background noise for a moment -- voices Jon didn't recognize.

"A joke?"

"Yeah," Jon said, the lie coming glibly. "I mean, Rich has been doing better. So I kinda made some shit up, just to freak Dave out. Bad idea, I guess."

Doc barked a laugh. "Yeah, Jon. Probably."

"All right. Sorry."

More silence. More murmurings in the background. Jon tried to decipher them but then Doc's voice was drowning them out.

"OK -- Joke or not, I still need to talk to you and Rich. Together."

"Sure," Jon replied automatically. "Like … Just to check in?"

"You could say that. But I gotta be honest, Jonny -- I've been noticing some things going on with you, too."

Just like that, the background noise dropped away, and Jon's awareness was dragged inside. To the fiery line climbing from his gut to his chest.

"Like what?"

"Well, onstage, for one. You haven't been yourself, especially the last few shows."

He paused, like he expected Jon to interject. But that wasn't going to happen. Jon wasn't feeding him anything.

Doc blew out a breath. "I figured it was the stress. Or exhaustion -- whatever. I've been thinking it'll pass now that Richie seems to be getting better. But now I don't know …"

Jon winced as the heat coiled around his ribs.

"I hafta tell ya, Doc -- I don't know what you mean. But if you wanna talk, that's cool. Not sure how Rich will feel about it, though."

"Well, I'm not gonna give him a choice, am I?" Doc sighed. "All right, listen, I gotta go. But we're sitting down soon."

"Sure," Jon agreed breezily, already moving to hang up the phone. "Talk to you later."

"Oh, Jon -- one more thing."

Jon closed his eyes, telling himself to tamp down his anger. "Yeah?"

"Will you call your wife, for fuck's sake?"

Jon's eyes flew open. "Why? What happened?"

Doc laughed, sounding incredulous. "Nothing, man -- But she is _pissed_ at you."

"What? How do you know that?"

"She called me earlier, too. I'm very popular today."

Jon shook his head -- It made no sense. "Why would she call _you?_ "

"Because _you,_ apparently, have forgotten how to use a phone. She said she hasn't heard from you in two weeks."

For a moment, Jon stood frozen on the spot, thinking he'd misheard. But he knew he hadn't, and the reality pushed the air from his lungs.

"No. I …" A wave of dizziness washed over him and he dropped onto the edge of the bed. "That's not right. I just talked to her."

Doc laughed again. "Well, according to Dot, she's been having a fuckton of conversations with hotel clerks. But not you."

Jon blinked at the phone base on the nightstand. "No," he denied, but his voice sounded weak, far away. "That's not right."

_It's a lie. He's lying._

"Jon? You OK?"

_Hang up. Just fucking hang up._

He squeezed his hand around the receiver till his arm shook.

"Jon?"

"Yeah … fine." He stared at the wall, searching for words. "I, uh, must've dreamt I called her last night … "

Silence.

Jon brought his other hand to his forehead and found it was shaking, too. "Um. I better call her now."

"Yeah. You sure you're OK, Jon?"

"Uh-huh." He was hanging up before he even said good-bye. Before Doc had the chance to tell him one more thing that might convince him he'd lost his mind.

_It's a lie. It has to be a lie. ___

__He could imagine how Richie -- this thing inside Richie -- could get to the guys. Even Doc. But there was no way it could turn Dot against him, make her spin tales to push him over the edge. Doc had to be lying._ _

__Jon dropped his head into his hands, felt the throbbing pulse of blood in his temples. He couldn't understand it -- why this was happening to him._ _

__But he didn't need to understand it._ _

__He just needed to end it._ _

__

____

*****

"I have to talk to you."

Jon made sure his tone was clear -- that he wasn't taking no for answer. He wasn't going to be shut out, pounding on the door until his knuckles bled. And there was no mistaking the look on Richie's face as he stood there, hair dripping wet and mostly hidden behind the door, holding it like a shield.

It was fear. Jon felt it radiate through his own skin, down into his bones. He could taste it on his tongue.

_Good._

Richie darted his eyes around, and Jon knew he was trying to spot whatever shadows he thought could be lurking. He also knew Richie wouldn't see a thing.

"OK," he consented, sounding almost resigned.

For a second, Jon felt an unease -- dubious that it could be so easy. But he pushed it aside and stepped into the room.

"You OK, Jonny?" Richie asked as he shut the door.

Jon almost smiled. He had to admire the way this thing could emulate Richie's softness, his need to be a caretaker. But there was no way he was falling for it.

"Jon? What is it?"

He slowly turned around. Just like the night before, Richie had his back against the door, keeping as much distance between them as he could. 

_He must know. He must know I'm not gonna let him get away with it._

He had to wonder, then, why Richie let him in so willingly. But he pushed that away, too -- He didn't need to understand.

Jon took a couple steps backward toward the bed, holding his hand out. "C'mere, OK? Let's sit down."

Richie looked at his outstretched hand, and Jon could sense the trepidation rolling off of him. Still, he nodded and moved toward the bed. 

When he sat down he was so close, Jon felt the warmth rising from his skin. Smelled the soap he'd just showered with. He was so close Jon couldn't look at his face, because there was a chance he'd lose his nerve.

So he cast his eyes down, and immediately noticed what was missing. The crosses. Richie hadn't put them on yet.

Jon reached out to brush two fingers across the base of his throat. Richie flinched at the contact, but otherwise didn't move … even when Jon began trailing his fingers along the space between his throat and sternum.

Jon didn't understand it, but he didn't care. He was consumed by the simple physicality now. With each pass of his fingers, it was like that fire in his core -- the insistence of it -- was being drawn to the periphery of his body. Filling him with the urge to dig his nails in, tear open that vulnerable place, end it all --

He inhaled sharply as Richie's hand caught his, pressing it against the heartbeat underneath. Stopping him.

"Jonny? Will you help me with my bandages?"

Jon had to blink a couple times before he could look Richie in the eyes. "What?"

Richie's lips quirked toward an uncertain smile. "I can't put them on myself."

Jon couldn't answer for a moment, too confused by the shift in energy. But Richie didn't seem to need an answer, because he was already on his feet, retrieving his makeshift first-aid bag.

"Here." He tossed it onto the bed, next to Jon, before pulling his tank top off.

Jon looked back and forth from the bag to Richie, as he sprawled out on his belly.

"Why don't you ask Dave?" he said, because he couldn't think of anything else.

Richie turned his head to the side. "I need you." 

The words cut straight into Jon, made his chest ache.

_No. Don't listen._

He had a plan. He knew why he was there, and it wasn't for this. Yet he found himself getting up and moving to the side of the bed … standing there and taking in the view of Richie's damaged body.

The old bandages were already off, and the first thing Jon noticed was that the raised, inflamed wounds had receded into patterns like drawings across Richie's skin. It had been slowly happening all along, he supposed. This was just the first time he'd really looked.

And it was too much. He didn't know why, but it was. He shut his eyes.

"Jonny? I need you to look."

When Jon opened his eyes, he saw Richie watching him from over his shoulder. "It won't work unless you look."

"Yeah," he said, assuming he understood. 

Jon grabbed the antibiotic ointment, squeezed some onto his hand, started to dab it onto Richie's skin -- the whole time trying not to actually see what he was doing. Wondering _why_ he was doing it. This wasn't what he came here to do. 

"Jonny. Look at me."

"Yeah," Jon said, even as he stilled his actions and shut his eyes again.

Because in the dark, things were simpler. There was only the heat under his hands. And then the stirring inside. The pull that cut through all the confusion and told him exactly what he was supposed to do … that reminded him why he was there.

Without a word, Jon climbed fully onto the bed, laying himself on top of Richie.

He expected a fight, but it never came … even when he pushed those damp locks aside and ran his fingertips along the back of Richie's neck.

He did hear Richie's breath catch, and then come in soft pants. He did know he was trembling now -- hard enough that Jon could feel it in his own body. There was a moment where he retracted his hand, eased his weight off a bit, and just waited -- thinking Richie would try to throw him off and go on the attack. But he didn't.

Instead he murmured, unsteadily. "Jon? You have to get the bandages. Finish it for me."

Jon couldn't fathom why Richie was making it so easy. He could've wrapped his hands around that undefended neck … pulled out the folding knife in his back pocket … told Richie he loved him but hated the thing inside him.

Without warning, Jon's vision clouded and he realized there were tears in his eyes. He quickly wiped them away and pressed his full weight onto Richie again -- inching up to whisper against his ear.

"I love you."

"I know." The trembling was almost violent now. "I love you, too." 

Jon winced then buried his head, pressing his lips to the delicate skin behind Richie's ear. "Then why are you so scared?"

"'Cause I don't know if this is gonna work."

Jon felt his stomach drop. "What?" he demanded, reflexively grasping Richie's upper arm.

Still, there was no resistance. "Jonny. Just do what I asked. You have to figure out a way to see."

Jon shook his head, squeezing the flesh under fingertips. "The fuck are you talking about?"

Finally, Richie started to struggle against him. "Just look at me."

Jon lifted up, unsure why he was listening when he didn't have to -- when he knew he shouldn't.

But he ended up staring down at the web of red scars defacing the length of Richie's back. And instead of barely looking as he'd always done, he held his gaze steady.

"I'm looking."

"I know."

Jon kept looking until he was seeing. Seeing the skin between the cuts, the places that had survived unscathed. Seeing the places that might never be the same. And as he kept seeing, the same trembling he'd felt in Richie's body started to inhabit his own.

"Rich --"

That was all he could get out before the trembling seemed to ride up into his brain and he was forced to close his eyes against a sharp internal pain.

" _Fuck._ Rich …"

The vise around his head eased a bit, and a moment later Jon was seeing again. But this time, he was hovering over the smooth, unspoiled skin of Richie's back. 

_What the fuck?_

Jon darted his eyes around to see that the hotel room was different, but familiar. It even felt familiar -- its air thick, too-warm and smelling of sex. He could feel his skin tingling with pleasure. He could hear Richie's voice, low and desperate, chanting his name …

_No._

Jon dropped his head to his chest. He knew where he was and he couldn't face it.

" _No._ Rich -- What's happening?"

There was no answer, or maybe he just didn't hear it. Because suddenly there was only one thing possessing his awareness -- an animal drive taking over his body and mind. Something that scared the life out of him.

_No._

Before Jon could do anything to stop it, he was sinking his teeth into the sweat-dampened flesh beneath him. Tasting its sweetness. Feeling like he could tear it apart to get inside.

And the blissful moans turned into screams.

_Oh, God. No, no, no._

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help. In the dark, things only got clearer.

The pieces were disjointed, too quick to see like a movie. But he could feel them. He felt Richie's hand on his throat, trying to stop him. Felt him let go, for just a moment. Felt how he'd pulled away and let Richie rise to his shins -- let him think it was over. Then shoved him down again.

_No. It's not me. It's not me._

But even as he prayed the words in his mind, he knew they were a lie. He could feel the truth.

"Oh, God. Rich -- Help me."

He said it out loud, but there was no answer. Instead, Jon was being shoved off the bed, just like that night. He landed against the wall, curled in on himself and useless -- just like that night.

The difference was, when he found the courage to look up, he didn't see some invisible demon attacking his best friend. He saw himself.

Or really, some version of himself he could barely recognize. Something that was willing to do things he never would. Something with empty eyes and no soul.

"God, _stop._ … Jonny."

Jon recognized the words -- He remembered what Richie had said that night. But he wondered what he'd seen. Wondered if Richie had known it was him all along, but refused to believe it.

It was astounding, he realized, what a human heart could be fooled into.

Jon buried his face in his hands, choked out a sob. But there was no way to block it out -- the sounds, the scents, the taste of fear and pain on his tongue. It didn't matter if he was looking or not, the terror of it was racking his body. 

Yet, in some quiet place in the back of his mind, he somehow perceived the good in that. To finally know.

"Rich … I can't …"

Jon let the thought go as he realized the room around him was quiet now. He felt hands on his, drawing them away from his face. And then he was looking down into Richie's eyes, watching his own tears fall onto his skin. 

"Jonny? Did you see?"

Jon let the weight of his body drop, hid his face in the curve of Richie's neck, felt him breathe.

"Rich?"

Richie slid a palm up and down his back, and Jon drew a shaky breath.

"There's something inside of me."

Richie's hand pressed against the back of his heart. "I know."

Jon tried to stifle another sob, but it was pointless. He threaded his fingers into Richie's hair. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

Jon shuddered, shocked by how painful those words were. Because he knew they were probably true, but he couldn't honestly feel them. How could it not be his fault?

He curled his fingers around the locks of hair in his hand. "What am I gonna do?"

Richie held on a little tighter. "We'll figure it out."

Jon almost laughed at the ludicrously simple answer. He lifted up slightly, touching his lips to Richie's cheek. "Don't let me hurt anyone."

Richie tilted his head so their lips brushed. "I won't."

Jon pulled back, too ashamed to let Richie soothe him that way. He pushed onto his forearm then brushed some of the hair away from Richie's eyes.

"Don't let me hurt you anymore."

He felt Richie's hand stroking his back again. "Can't promise that …"

Jon wasn't sure what he meant exactly, but he had an idea -- and it was a little overwhelming. He laid down again, resting his head on the pillow next to Richie's.

"So you won't leave me?"

Richie paused before answering. "Of course not." He swept a broad circle across Jon's back, and then another. "I think I know someone who can help us."

It took Jon a moment to understand, and then he truly was laughing. Or maybe he was crying. 

"Fucking _Detroit?_ " he managed through the tears.

Richie laughed, soft and real. "Who knew, huh?"

Jon wanted to answer, but he was done with words. He could only let the tears fall onto the pillow, onto Richie's neck, his shoulder. He knew now he needed to get empty, and this seemed like a good start.

END


End file.
